The Legend of Zelda: The Triforce of Power
by KeriPeardon
Summary: When Hyrule's sole heir is kidnapped, Link and Zelda are brought back from the dead to rescue him. But they soon learn that the infant prince plays a critical role in someone else's resurrection. Can they stop an old foe before it's too late, or will they lose both the prince and the peace that they created so many centuries before?
1. The Passing of a Legend

Author's Note: This is a sequel to "The Legend of Zelda: Circle of Destiny" and its spinoff, "Legacy." While this story should be capable of standing on its own, it will make a lot more sense if you are already familiar with the world that I created in that original story.

Also, the first story was written as if it was a game; it has a clear quest, dungeons, bosses, and magical prizes (for lack of a better term). This story, however, is not intended to be a game. Rather, it's the story that happens in between games and it will set up a storyline for a subsequent game-storyline. So it will have a different flow than the first one.

Because of other things I have going on right now, updates will be slow, so be forewarned. That being said, if I've been silent a while, give me a nudge. I tend to be more productive if I feel like other people are relying on me.

* * *

"You don't look too good," Zelda said to Link while they were eating breakfast. Or, rather, she was eating breakfast; he had spent the last twenty minutes poking at his food, not taking more than two or three bites.

"I don't feel too good," he admitted.

"Is your shoulder paining you?" she asked. His left shoulder—where he had taken an arrow—had been the bane of his existence for decades. Arthritis had set up in it to the point that he couldn't stand to move it. Getting dressed had become such a torture for him, they had the royal tailor design a new garment for him. The new shirt cut across the body diagonally, tying on the left side of his waist. The right side had a long sleeve, but the left arm and part of the chest and back were left bare. For the winter, when it was too cold to be that exposed, there was a variation that had a cape attached to the left side, which covered him down to the elbow. He usually had his arm tied to his body—just so he didn't accidentally move it—but it was left free below the elbow, so he had some use of that hand. He had learned over the years, though, to be right-handed.

"My shoulder's no worse than usual," he said.

She put her hand to his peaked face. "You feel a little warm. Maybe you've caught a cold."

"Maybe," he said, listlessly.

"Go back to bed and get Doctor Roberé to give you something for it."

He nodded a little. "I think I will," he said, slowly rising to his feet.

Zelda knew he felt bad if he wasn't arguing with her. His infirmity annoyed him to no end and he usually pushed himself beyond what was reasonable. It was rare that he let his rebellious body win a fight.

Zelda finished her breakfast alone. They were usually surrounded by family, but Zeyde and Katherine were on progress, and they had taken most of the court with them. Link had said that he wasn't up to the trip this time, so he and Zelda had stayed behind.

That was also very much unlike him; he had always liked to travel and he especially liked to meet people. During their reign, he and Zelda had traveled more than any previous monarchs. It used to be that people lived their entire lives without ever glimpsing a member of the royal family, but Link and Zelda made it a point to be seen—to the point that it was the rare individual in Hyrule who had not seen them at least once.

When Zelda finished eating, she wandered back to the bedroom to check on Link; it would be like him not to bother to call the doctor. He would insist that he could get over the problem on his own and there was no need to take up the man's time—despite the fact that Doctor Roberé's sole job was to take care of the aging former monarchs; the rest of the royal family had a separate physician.

When Zelda opened the bedroom door, though, she was horrified to see the doctor standing by the bed, holding a chamber pot up while Link vomited into it. Even from across the room, Zelda could see he was bringing up blood.

Doctor Roberé was shouting at his apprentice and the servants, sending them scurrying for warm towels and hot water and various medicines.

Link sank back onto the pillows with a groan.

The doctor examined him and asked him some questions—which were interrupted by another bout of vomiting—then he hurried to a side table to begin mixing medicine.

Zelda's feet were numb as they automatically carried her across the floor.

"You didn't tell me you were this sick," she whispered.

Link cracked open an eye. "I didn't know I was. It just came . . . on. . ."

He leaned over the side of the bed and threw up again.

He was losing a lot of blood.

Doctor Roberé came back a moment later, pushing past Zelda. "Here, Your Majesty, try this."

"I don't think I can drink anything right now," he said weakly.

"Try. If you can keep it down for just a few minutes, it should stop the vomiting."

Link took the cup from him and reluctantly drank from it.

It wasn't the first time he—or Zelda, for that matter—had bled internally. They had both suffered bouts over the years—the lasting legacy of their fight against the demon-dragon. Zelda had had a particularly worrisome bout while she was pregnant with their seventh child; there was real concern that she would miscarry. Link had rushed to the fairy in the Northern Woods, gotten tears from her, then teleported back. Thankfully, the tears had saved both Zelda and their unborn child, but it was a very close thing.

Neither of them had had a problem for quite some time, but given their advanced age—and especially Link's other physical ailments—a bout at this point was worrying.

Link didn't manage to keep the medicine down for a minute; he was soon hanging over the side of the bed again.

Zelda closed her eyes.

 _Zeyde?_

 _Yes, Mother?_ he answered almost at once.

 _Your father is sick; he's bringing up blood again. Can you send someone to the fairy and get some tears for him? Regular medicine isn't going to work._

There was a long pause. _Mars is on his way now; he's closest. Expect him within the hour._

 _Thank you._

 _We're packing up now; we'll be home shortly as well._

 _I don't know think it's that serious,_ she said half-heartedly; in truth, she was terribly worried.

 _If it wasn't serious, you wouldn't send to the fairy,_ he argued.

 _Call me cautious._

 _Yes, and I'm being cautious as well. We'll be home in an hour or less._

By the time Mars arrived with the fairy's tears half an hour later, Link was so weak, he couldn't lift his head. Zelda stood at the foot of the bed, incessantly wringing the canopy drapes in her hands. Link was as white as the sheets. She had only seen him that colorless once before: when he had nearly died from his shoulder wound in the mountains of Shi-Ha.

Mars gently cradled Link's head, lifting him up enough to drink the tears. Link sighed wearily as Mars laid him down again, then he promptly fell asleep.

Doctor Roberé took Zelda by the arm and led her to the far corner of the room. Zeyde and Katherine were already there, keeping watch; the rest of the court was still dribbling in.

"I have confidence that the fairy's tears will stop the internal bleeding," the doctor told the three monarchs in a low voice. "But I also know that her magic has limited ability to heal the damage caused by the old poison."

"What are you saying? Zelda whispered.

"I'm saying . . . I don't know if he will recover from this. It's hard for an elderly person—much less someone of His Majesty's advanced age—to recover from a serious illness or injury; the body can't heal as it did when it was younger."

"Are . . . are you saying . . ?" Zeyde choked on his words, unable to continue. Katherine slipped her hand into his, squeezing tightly as he fought to blink back tears.

"The next day or two will tell," the doctor said evasively. "If he shows signs of improvement, then he might soldier on for a while longer. But if not . . ."

The words he left unsaid hung in the air like a terror no one could look at, much less acknowledge.

"We shall have to see," he repeated. "I've seen people will themselves to live and others who have willed themselves to die; that kind of drive is very powerful. And His Majesty has a willpower that's unlike anything I've ever seen before, to be honest. He might cheat death once more."

He left to check on Link again, leaving Zeyde and Katherine and Zelda alone in the corner.

Without saying anything, Zeyde pulled his mother into a hug, holding her tight. It was only then that she noticed she was trembling.

"I can't do this," she whispered.

Zeyde put his head down, whispering in her ear. "He's so strong, he'll outlive us all."

But Zelda thought his words sounded hollow—as if he didn't believe them. And Zelda didn't believe them either; despite their long lifespans, she and Link were only mortal; their end would come someday.

But as much as she knew that to be true, she didn't want it to come today. At least, not for Link. She could face the prospect of her own death better than his.

* * *

Everyone kept a hushed vigil, watching anxiously for some sign that Link would pull through, but he slept the rest of the day and didn't stir. Later in the evening, when everything was dark, his breathing became more labored.

"You better bring the family in," the doctor whispered to Zeyde.

Zelda couldn't stand to be in the room anymore; she fled to the Council room and shut the door, leaving Katherine and Zeyde to organize a final family reunion. Katherine began instructing the staff to prepare rooms in the castle and reserve rooms throughout the city, while Zeyde teleported in his siblings. They, in turn, brought in their spouses and children, and so on through each subsequent generation. Link and Zelda had over twenty-five hundred descendants, so it was no small feat to handle all of them. But Katherine managed it, one wave at a time.

Even though they had enough descendants to create a good-sized city, Link and Zelda had met most of them at least once. It had become traditional for each generation of royal heirs to live in the castle and raise their children there, so the castle had never lacked for children since Link and Zelda had Zeyde. And the tendency of all of those children to play with their cousins meant that hundreds of children spent at least some portion of their childhood inside the castle.

And staying in the castle meant being petted and coddled by Papa Link and Mama Zee—but most especially by Link. He was perhaps the biggest softie in the history of the world. All the children knew he kept sweets stashed in his pockets and whenever there wasn't anyone else around, he doled them out. Before his arm became too bad, he played and chased and roughhoused with all of them. Sometimes he let the little boys "kill" him with their wooden swords, and they happily bragged that they were better swordsmen than even Link.

And when those children grew up and looked back fondly on their vacations at the castle, they wrote letters, asking if their own children could come for a visit.

No one was ever turned down.

All through the night, groups of fifty people at a time went into Link and Zelda's bedroom to say goodbye and receive a final blessing from their patriarch.

I was nearly three in the morning before Link and Zelda's children began going in, one at a time, to spend a little time with their father.

Zelda was asleep at the Council table when a soft knock woke her up.

Zeyde stuck his head inside. His face was splotchy and his eyes red. "Everyone's done," he announced. "He wants you now."

Zelda rose to her feet stiffly and walked to the door. She had to purposefully avert her eyes and not look at Zeyde's tear-streaked face; if she looked at him too long, she knew she would break down.

Zeyde escorted her to the bedroom. She was about to remind him that she remembered the way to her own bedroom, but when they turned the corner, she saw that the hallway was filled with people. Some of them were family, but many were advisors and servants. Just as there was always a gaggle of people awaiting the birth of the next heir, now they were waiting for word that their king had passed on to the Other Side.

Zeyde had to push some of the people away to make room for Zelda to pass. Many people seemed too lost in their own grief to notice at first.

"Move, please. Let my mother through."

They finally made it to the door and Zeyde opened it for her. When she went into the receiving room, she breathed deeply; she hadn't realized it, but she had practically been holding her breath while wading through the crush of people. The anteroom was empty and silent, though. There weren't even any physician assistants in it.

Zelda paused at the bedroom door and took another deep breath. Then, steeling herself, she quickly opened the door and stepped inside.

The bedroom was empty, too, save for Link, and there were only a few candles lit. She might have just been coming to bed late on a normal day. Link always left some candles burning if he went to bed before she did.

She went to the bedside and looked down at him. His eyes were closed and she could hear a faint rattle in his lungs. Color had not returned to his face, even though he had stopped vomiting blood.

In one hundred and forty-two years, she had kept the death-watch beside many a person: human daughters- and sons-in-law, loyal advisors and other members of court, those taken before their time due to illness or injury; she knew a dying person when she saw one.

As if he could feel the weight of her gaze, Link opened his eyes. They were cloudy with age and glassy from his illness, but when he managed to smile at her, she saw the bright, blue-eyed boy who had won her heart more than one hundred and twenty-five years before.

"There you are," he said weakly.

"Here I am," she said, sitting down gently on the side of the bed. But he shook his head a little and weakly motioned her away with his hand.

"Don't you do that."

"Do what?" she said, standing up again.

"Sit beside me like you're a stranger. Get in bed, woman."

She couldn't help herself; she chuckled softly.

She walked around the bed and pulled back the covers, but he stopped her again. "I get sick and you lose your mind," he continued to scold.

"What now?" she demanded.

"Do you normally wear your clothes to bed? Put on your nightgown."

She caught herself sighing in exasperation. Trust Link to be the exact same person on his deathbed that he was every other day of his life.

"You know, I never have understood why you like arguing with me," she said, as she headed for the closest. Strange, but she was starting to shake off the funerary pallor that had enveloped her and the rest of the castle all day. It was easy to forget and think that today was just a regular day of playfully bickering with Link before bedtime.

"I don't know," he said, his voice so weak she could barely hear him. "I just do." Then he breathlessly chuckled. "I've always thought you are at your most beautiful when you're mad."

She emerged from the closet a moment later wearing her nightgown. She blew out all but a couple of candles near the door so that if the doctor had to come in, he would have some light to see by.

"You know, most people get uglier when they get mad," she pointed out as she crawled into bed beside him.

"Not you," he said. "You are like a storm cloud rolling over the sea—wild and dangerous and exhilarating. I always have liked a good storm," he added as an afterthought.

"The real kind or mine?" she asked.

"Both."

He tried to move his arm, but wasn't able to make it move more than a few inches. But Zelda knew, without anything being said, what he wanted, so she picked up his arm and put it around her shoulders as she cuddled up close to him.

Even through their nightclothes, she could feel how cold he was. Link had never been cold-natured; it was he who had always warmed her up. But after a few minutes, Zelda's body heat warmed him up.

"This feels so much better," he said, closing his eyes with happiness.

The normalcy she had been feeling suddenly fell away and she was struck by the knowledge that this would be their last time together on this earth.

She felt the need to say something to him, but she didn't know what to say. She felt as if thousands of jumbled-up words were roiling inside her and she couldn't pick out the ones she needed.

"You've got something on your mind," he said, not opening his eyes. "You're all stiff and holding your breath."

"Well, yes . . ." she slowly admitted. "Link, I . . ."

She couldn't find the words. Anything she could say would be something he had heard a thousand times from her before. This moment needed something else—something unique—but how could you sum up more than a century of love? There just weren't words for that.

"You don't have to say anything," he said. Then he slowly opened his eyes to look at her. "Don't you think I already know?"

"But . . . I want to say something more than that."

"Yes, and I already know that, too."

He gave her a ghost of his old cocky smile.

"Link . . ."

"Why are you talking when you could be kissing me?"

She was taken aback for a moment, but her natural inclination to argue with him kicked in. "Well, you don't want to hear words you already know, so why should you want a kiss when you already know what it feels like?" she retorted.

"It's _because_ I know what it feels like that I want one," he bantered back. "Now kiss me."

She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. Unlike the rest of him, they were warm—to the point of feverish—and dry. But he managed to respond, kissing her back.

"Link, don't leave me," she whispered before she had a chance to stop herself.

He looked at her, his eyes sorrowful. "I would stay with you, if I could. You know that."

Tears began to fall from her eyes and drip onto his face.

"I'm only going ahead of you on a trip," he whispered. "Soon enough, when your work here is done, you'll join me. And I'll be waiting for you."

"I don't want to wait."

"You must. It's not for you to decide when to cross over. There are still children to care for. And Zeyde and the others will need you—they will need your strength while they sort themselves out. You still have people to take care of."

"But who will take care of me when you're gone?"

He smiled a little. "Do you really think I will be that far away?"

"What if . . . what if we don't get together in our next lifetime?" she blurted out. That possibility had been weighing on her mind for many years.

"Sweetheart, do you think anything could keep me away from you?'

"We were apart for many, many lifetimes," she pointed out.

"Yes, but now I know what it's like to be with you. You are imprinted on my soul and I will never forget that. No matter what, I will not forget." He turned his head and kissed her hair. "I will always come to you."

That thought comforted Zelda. Even if they forgot this life completely when they were reborn, she had every confidence that Link would do as he said. Between his stubbornness and the fact that the gods seemed unable or unwilling to deny him anything he wanted, she was sure he would find her again.

"Do you think that you will be born common again, or have you gotten a taste for being king?" Zelda mused.

Link laughed breathlessly. Zelda—her ear pressed to his chest—could hear his lungs struggling to allow him to do even that. But he seemed to pay it no mind; he was no more afraid of death than he was of anything else.

"If I am destined to be king, and you are born a princess, that would be a bit awkward, as we would, by default, be siblings." He wheezed with laughter again. "When I said I would come back for you, I didn't exactly mean in that way."

"We might be royals from different kingdoms," Zelda pointed out.

"I am a Knight of Hyrule, always descended from Knights of Hyrule. You are always Hyrule's heir. I don't think we'll come back in separate kingdoms."

"So you'll be common?"

"I'll be whatever I must be to be with you. . . . So long as I'm not your brother," he added with a chuckle.

"Cousins?" she teased.

"As long as we're the kissing kind."

She laughed. Then she leaned up and kissed him again. When she pulled away, he was smiling. "Yes, just like that," he said approvingly.

She lay back down, snuggling close to him. "You're a silly man, you know that?"

"So you keep telling me. But you know what?"

"What?"

His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "I think you like silly men."

"No, I think I just like you."

"And I like you. Don't you love it when a plan comes together?"

They laughed together.

* * *

Zelda was vaguely aware that someone was softly calling to her. A light swelled in the darkness and the voice became more instant. Then there was a hand on her shoulder, shaking her.

"Mother."

She finally responded to that voice and opened her eyes.

Across the bed from her, Doctor Roberé was leaning in, a candlestick in his hand, looking at her anxiously. When she glanced behind her, she saw Zeyde on the bed, on his knees, trying to gently pull her out of bed.

"What is it?" she croaked, still sleepy.

"Come. Get up," Zeyde said, almost in a whisper.

"It's the middle of the night," she complained. Even after all these years, she still hated getting up too early. A man took his life in his hands if he dared wake her before daybreak; the castle ought to be on fire, a child grievously injured, or the kingdom invaded; Zelda felt those were the only legitimate reasons for waking her up when it was still dark.

If someone needed to be woken in the middle of the night, Link was always the preferred choice. He was never overly grumpy.

Zelda glanced at Link and she suddenly knew what was going on.

He had been pale before, but his skin now had a grayish tint. When she reached out to touch his face, he was as cold as a stone.

She stared at him in disbelief. Despite his pallor, he looked as if he would wake up at any moment. There was even a hint of a smile on his lips, as if he was only teasing.

"Link," she whispered. But he didn't respond.

Zeyde was pulling her away, but she began to fight him with a strength that a woman her age shouldn't have possessed.

"No . . . Link . . ."

"Mother, come," Zeyde pleaded.

"No!"

She began to scream—screams so desperate and piercing, people all around the castle were startled out of their sleep. They were only drowned out when the cannon began booming out, announcing to the city that their king had passed.

Zeyde finally gave up trying to coax his mother away and resorted to picking her up and carrying her out—Zelda fighting him every step of the way.

* * *

At Zeyde's instance, Doctor Roberé drugged Zelda and she spent the day in a motionless stupor, halfway between sleep and consciousness. It numbed the sharp pain, but it also kept her stuck in a frightful place she couldn't escape from. She lived in a gray fog of terrible loneliness that no one would rescue her from.

She fought against the drugs for a long time and, finally, in the middle of the night, she was able to wake up. Afraid of falling asleep again, she tumbled out of bed, falling to the floor in a tangle of covers.

She waited, holding her breath, afraid that someone might have heard her moving around, but no one came.

She untangled herself and got to her feet. When she glanced around the room, she didn't immediately recognize it. There were bedrooms all over the castle and it could have been any one of them. All she knew was it wasn't her room.

She stormed out, full of righteous indignation. She'd give Zeyde and the doctor a piece of her mind for taking her away from Link and leaving her so drugged she couldn't wake up.

She went down the hallway, but it took a couple of turns before she finally recognized where she was. She was on the third floor, which was reserved for their councilors; they must have put her in one of their suites.

Still angry, she stomped down to the second floor and went to her room, flinging doors open as she went. But when she opened the inner doors to the bedchamber, she found the candles lit, but the room—including the bed—were empty.

This brought her up short. Where was Zeyde and the others? And where had they moved Link to?

Panic suddenly gripped her so hard, her heart constricted ominously and she had to grab onto the door frame to keep from falling. Her breath came in ragged gasps.

They . . . Surely they hadn't had Link's funeral without her? Without giving her a last chance to say goodbye?

She sank to the floor, gasping for air as the panic threatened to take control of her.

"Help," she called out, her breathless voice barely above a whisper. "Help me, please."

Luckily there was a guard posted nearby—one who had already been watching his queen worriedly. When he cautiously poked his head around the corner and saw her collapsed on the floor, he ran in to help her.

"Your Majesty, what's wrong? Did you fall? Do you need the doctor?"

She gripped his arms, her fingers digging into his muscle like claws. "Where . . ? Where . . ?"

"What, Your Majesty?"

"Link," she finally managed to say.

He looked at her with confusion for a moment, then finally caught on. "The King Father? They took him to the chapel, Your Majesty. The knights are keeping a vigil."

The constriction in Zelda's chest eased just a little, making it easier to breathe. "He's . . . They haven't . . . haven't had the funeral yet?"

"No, Your Majesty. That's scheduled for the morning. They needed time to make all the arrangements."

Zelda let out a shuddering breath and sagged in the guard's arms with relief.

"I better go get His Majesty," the guard said.

Zelda's head snapped up. "No."

"You're not well, Your Majesty."

"I'll be even less well if they drug me again."

"I'm sure they just wanted to ease your pain."

"By trapping me in a place where I couldn't wake up or even move? No thank you."

The guard looked hesitant, as if he knew he ought to get someone more qualified to take care of the Queen Mother, but not wanting to go against her express command, either.

"Help me up," she demanded.

He got to his feet, then pulled her to hers. Zelda's knees felt a little shaky, but after a few deep breaths, she felt more in control of herself.

"Shouldn't I fetch the doctor, at least?" the guard said, half-pleading.

"No." She looked up at him. "Don't tell anyone you've seen me."

He looked pained, but he acquiesced. "Yes, Your Majesty."

"Link's at the chapel, you said?"

"Yes, Your Majesty. At least, that's what I heard them say when they left at sundown. I assume they're still there."

"Thank you. Remember, not a word."

"No, Your Majesty," he said, bowing his head dutifully.

Zelda ducked into the closet and found a loose gown that she had had for decades. It had originally been made for her when she was late in pregnancy, but it had been so comfortable and trouble-free, she had continued to wear it off and on for years. Now, she slipped it on and put her feet into the first pair of shoes she came across and headed out of the room. Downstairs, on the first floor, she took the hallway to the west wing.

More than half a century before, Zelda and Link had commissioned the addition of a chapel to the castle. Their weapons had long been stored in the Jewel Room, but Link was worried that some of them might lose their magical powers if kept in a non-sacred space.

"We don't want your Light Arrows to die the way the Master Sword did," he had warned. "I don't think there's a place we can take them to and get them renewed."

So they had a chapel built in the courtyard on the west side of the castle. A raised, covered walkway connected it to the main building. Inside, there were a few pews—enough to seat about fifty people—an altar, and the large wooden and glass cases that housed all of their magical and mechanical weapons. Visitors to the castle still wanted to come see the weapons—which they were allowed to do—but the chapel was more than just a tourist stop; it fulfilled its primary function as a religious building. Over the years, many people had gotten married there—from people who worked in the castle to younger princes and princesses who wanted a small, private wedding. Major holidays had been celebrated by the Royal Family there, too.

And more than a few deceased family members had been laid there prior to their funeral and burial in the family crypt under the monastery.

Zelda slipped out the side door that led directly to the chapel. The air was damp and chilly, mocking the sweet perfume of the spring flowers already in bloom.

The double-guard that was normally posted outside the chapel day and night was noticeably absent. Confused, Zelda opened the door, expecting to find the chapel empty after all.

The interior was a bit dim—the chandeliers were all lit, but the wall sconces weren't—and there were long shadows on the walls. Adding to the eerie atmosphere was the presence of dozens of knights in full-armor, standing as silent sentinels down either side of the center aisle and along the edges of the room. The visor of every helm was down, obscuring the face of the person underneath it. And none of them were wearing their customary heraldic tabards, making them completely anonymous.

Zelda stood there for a moment, but not one of the knights moved or spoke or acknowledged her presence in any way. She began to wonder if the suits of armor were all empty. She wasn't sure which was creepier: the thought of so many people standing there silent and motionless, or empty suits of armor staring at her.

She slowly walked up the aisle, glancing around. No one tried to stop her, but she had a feeling she wasn't supposed to be there. She was intruding on some ritual that she wasn't invited to. But she felt her claim on Link was stronger than anyone else's—even his brother knights'—and she was determined to see him again.

When she came to the front of the room, she saw Link laid out on the altar table. It had been draped with cloth of gold that dimly glowed in the candlelight. Link lay on top, also wearing a full suit of armor—polished until it shone like a mirror—and holding his sword in both hands, point down. It took Zelda a moment, but she eventually recognized it as the suit of armor that had been made for him in Erenrue during the Dark Days. He had worn other suits of armor since then; she didn't think he had ever worn his Erenrue armor again.

It made her curious; who had selected this armor for him? Had it just looked the best because it got the least amount of use, or had someone known the history of the suit and selected it for Link's final appearance?

Unlike the knights in the room, he had on a silk surcoat. Zelda was again surprised to realize that it didn't bear the arms of the king of Hyrule; instead, it had his family arms on it. She knew the surcoat had not been kept in the armory with the suit; the surcoats that she and Link wore to the battle on the field before Pallis had been burned to try and hide their identities once they escaped. As best she could remember, whenever Link wore a surcoat after that, it had always borne the arms of Hyrule. In fact, she was quite certain they had ridden to battle against Shi-Ha wearing matching surcoats.

The surcoat had to have been specifically made for this last display. But why?

She glanced at his helmet, which sat beside his head. It was not original to the suit; the original had been left on the field at Pallis. But at some point another helmet had been made to match the suit. It had feathers in its socket—two short blue plumes and one long gold plume: the mark of the king or supreme general—but it lacked a crown. She knew that Link's other helmets had a metal crown rived onto them, but although someone took the time to make him this helmet, they had not put a crown on it.

Was someone trying to imply that Link was not a king? After all these years, did someone want to point out his humble origins?

 _Mother, what are you doing here?_

Zelda jumped and hastily looked around. Everyone was still in their places, standing silent vigil. But she noticed that all the knights standing on either side of the altar all had crowns on their helms. The people standing at Link's head and feet had larger, more elaborate crowns than the others. A quick look at the style of armor gave away her daughter, Anne-Marie, Queen of Shi-Ha—meaning the other monarch was Zeyde.

Zelda turned to face him, but she replied telepathically to keep from breaking the almost holy silence. _I was afraid that you had buried him while I was drugged. I came to see for myself that he's still here._

 _Of course we wouldn't exclude you from the funeral,_ Zeyde replied, sounding rather hurt and offended that she would think so.

 _Of course I wouldn't have thought my own child would drug me,_ she retorted acidly.

 _Mother, you were hysterical. We just wanted to calm you down. The doctor was afraid for your health if you kept on._

 _So? If I grieve myself to death, it's my right. Besides, it wouldn't bother me at all if I went now, too, and you just had a funeral for both of us at once._

Even without saying anything, Zelda could feel him sigh the weary sigh of a man having to deal with a difficult and unreasonable parent.

 _You will not drug me again,_ Zelda stated. It was not a request.

 _I will do what the doctor says is necessary._

She marched right up to him and glared at him. She could see his blue eyes through the slit in his visor. _You will do as_ I _say. I'm old, but I'm not an imbecile. I still have the right to make my own decisions. And remember who gave you that crown. I'm not dead yet; I can still take it back._

 _So which is it? Do you want to die of grief or live to spite me?_

 _Gods! You are so much like your father!_ she fumed. Then she suddenly burst into tears.

She staggered over to the altar and collapsed against it, burying her head in her arms. _Oh, gods, Link, how could you leave me?_ she said, speaking to him as if he could hear. _Am I going to have to fight with Zeyde for entertainment? It's not the same. Nothing will be the same without you._

She felt a hand on her back. She looked up, and through her haze of tears, she saw Zeyde standing behind her. He had taken off his helmet and she could see him looking at her with pity and kindness. He looked horrible, though. His eyes were bloodshot and there were dark circles under them; he looked like he hadn't slept in days.

"Mother, let's go," he whispered. "Come on; I'll take you back to your room."

"No drugging me," she whispered back.

He shook his head. "No drugs. I promise.

Zelda turned back to Link. "Give me a moment," she told Zeyde.

Zeyde stepped back, giving her space.

Tears began to flow heavily down her cheeks again. _Is he more like me or you?_ she asked, speaking to Link again. _You used to make fun of me for arguing, but you know you always started the arguments. The only difference is that you didn't take them seriously, but you knew that I did._

She leaned in and kissed him, but his lips were cold and unmoving. Suddenly, she wished she hadn't touched him. She preferred the memory of the last time they had kissed. Even though he had been quickly slipping away, he had managed to retain his essential essence to the end. What lay before her now was just an empty shell that looked like her husband. Nothing that had truly made Link who he was could be found in anything physical—not even in his endearing smile. Everyone had a smile. What made Link's special was the light inside him that shone through that smile.

She turned away, dashing tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. "Why is your father in his old arms?" Zelda asked, latching onto something that was less painful to think about. "Why isn't he dressed as the King of Hyrule?"

"He wanted it this way," Zeyde replied. "He told me, the . . . the last time we spoke, what he wanted."

It all made sense now. Link, who would surely go down as one of Hyrule's greatest kings, didn't want to be buried in his kingly finery, but in the things that had been truly his: his family's arms and sword, and the armor that had been given to him when he fought for Erenrue. They were what he had earned by virtue of his deeds and his bloodline. Zelda had given him the title of king out of love for him, and gods knew he had done the work of a king—and more—but now, at the end, he was giving the title back and taking with him only that which was truly his.

Zelda had to hurriedly wipe away fresh tears. "You will never know his like again," she whispered, her voice threatening to crack even then.

"I know," Zeyde replied sadly. "We all know."

Then he put his hand on her shoulder and walked her back to her bedroom.

* * *

Zelda spent the rest of the night in her room, crying. She buried her face in her pillow to try and muffle the uncontrollable, wracking sobs that convulsed through her; she was afraid if anyone heard her wailing, they'd drug her again, despite Zeyde's promise not to do it.

She was sorely tempted to press her face into the pillow until she couldn't breathe and just let everyone think she had died of a broken heart, but she never actually attempted it. She didn't think it would work, for one, and secondly, she may fool everyone else, but she'd never fool Link. And the thought of having to face him on the Other Side after killing herself was enough to stop her.

A bluish light was starting to shine through the windows when Zelda finally rolled onto her back, exhausted. Her eyes ached, but no more tears would come from them; she had cried herself empty.

She still expected Link to come in at any moment. She would help him undress and get ready for bed. His shoulder always pained him the worst at night; he had to drink something every night to ease the pain enough so he could sleep. Zelda could see his pain in the tightness in the corners of his eyes and the weariness in his face. But, despite that, he still cracked jokes and started arguments as if there was nothing wrong with him. Sometimes he got that mischievous look in his eye and he began to kiss her hand and whisper things to her that still—after so many years—made her blush. He promised all sorts of things his advanced age would no longer allow him to deliver, but they enjoyed pretending they were young again, anyway.

The room seemed to echo with him—with his laughter and his smile and his larger-than-life personality. When she rolled over and hugged his pillow to her chest, inhaling, she could still smell his scent. He had always smelled of sunshine and warm skin and leather; even in winter, he smelled like the summer.

How could she come to bed alone every night and wake still alone? She had been sleeping with Link since before they were married. He had been comfort and security; he had protected her and made her feel loved. Now, she had nothing but a cold, empty spot in the bed beside her.

She laid her head against his pillow and began to cry again, although her sobs were strangely dry; her eyes ached mercilessly, but her body could squeeze out no more tears.

A short time later, there was a knock on her bedroom door. She scrambled to sit up, afraid someone had heard her. She did her best to mask her voice so it didn't sound as if she had been crying for hours.

"Yes?"

The door cracked open and her maid stuck her head in. "Your Majesty?" she asked timidly.

"Yes?"

"It's time."

Zelda didn't have to be told what it was time for. She merely nodded.

The maid entered the room and headed straight for the closet. "It's cold out this morning, Your Majesty. There's a frost on the grass. You'll have to wear something warm."

"That's fine," Zelda said wearily, not particularly caring what she wore. She had been to many funerals over the years; she had a selection of mourning clothing for every season.

The maid bustled out of the closet and brought a dress over to Zelda, offering it to her for her approval.

Zelda looked it over, then nodded. One black dress was pretty much like any other. Whereas Link had wanted to make a statement by wearing his family's arms on his surcoat, Zelda had no statement to make on this day. She was not a former queen nor the Queen Mother; she was simply a widow.

She let the maid help her dress, but then sent her away. "I can finish the rest myself," Zelda said.

"Are you sure, Your Majesty?"

"Yes. I want to be alone for a little while."

The maid looked at her sympathetically, then nodded and left the room.

Zelda let out a sigh. As much as she didn't want to be alone, she didn't want to be around people, either.

She sat down at her dressing table and studied her face in the mirror for a while. Link had always said the years had been kind to her, but there was no denying that she was an elderly woman; the smooth-skinned girl she had been a century before was gone. Her silvery-blonde hair had slowly become silver over the years and it had thinned somewhat. But it was still long and straight and everyone remarked that it was quite handsome. Certainly it was more attractive than the steel-gray that other women were cursed to have. Link's thick, blondish-brown hair had turned white. It had thinned some over time, too, but he still had a full head of hair—which was the envy of many a bald man at court.

Silently, Zelda braided her hair, then she pinned it up in a bun on the back of her head. She had arthritis in her shoulders from so many years of archery—although her pain had never been as bad as Link's—and a part of her wished she hadn't sent her maid away. But she didn't want anyone to know that she wasn't wearing shoes and stockings; her maid would certainly never let her leave the castle without something on her feet. But it was considered a great show of respect and devotion to walk in someone's funeral cortege barefoot. And if anyone deserved the show of respect, it was Link.

She rummaged through a drawer in her dressing table, looking through various veils and scarves. She finally found a large square of black lace. She put it over her head and pinned it through her hair in a few places. Now her vision was almost completely obscured by the heavy lace—which meant that others couldn't see her, either. She preferred it that way.

She went downstairs—careful not to let her bare feet show under her dress—and found the foyer full of people. Everyone seemed to be speaking, but their voices were so low, it sounded like the hiss of a distant hive of bees.

A guard posted at the foot of the steps looked up as she came down. She could see him scrutinizing her, trying to decide who she was. Zelda was certainly not the only woman present wearing a mourning veil, so she might have been anyone.

She put a hand on his shoulder. "Good morning, Lisle," she said quietly. Lisle had been a guard at the castle for decades and had often been posted outside Link's and Zelda's bedroom.

He caught her hand and lifted it to his lips. "Sweet lady," he murmured.

His gesture touched her. Under any other circumstance, none of the staff would presume to take her hand like that. But she understood that Lisle was offering her what comfort he could.

Zelda glanced around. "Is there any method to this madness?" she asked him in a whisper.

"Yes, Your Majesty, I believe so."

"Can you show me where to go?"

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Then he bellowed out, "Make way for the Queen Mother!" The room grew quieter and the crowds parted before Lisle like water before the bow of a ship. Zelda followed in his wake.

In the center of the room, there was a line of people and the Master of Protocol was anxiously trying to arrange everyone. The genealogist was standing beside him with two pageboys holding open a giant roll of parchment. Link and Zelda's family tree was spread across it in a great tangle of branches. Their descendants had married cousins on more than one occasion—in fact, all of Hyrule's nobility were cousins to some degrees—and sometimes, when a person lost their spouse early, there was a remarriage that produced additional children; depending on the rank of the first and second spouses, the younger children of the second marriage might outrank the older ones of the first marriage. But if someone married a person of higher status, then the spouse typically conferred his or her status on that person.

It was enough to give any anal-retentive herald a heart attack.

The Master of Protocol looked up as Zelda approached. He dipped his head in a quick bow. "Majesty."

"How bad is it?" she asked. Even though she was technically no longer in charge of anything, she found it hard to let go. And given that people still responded to her as if she was the queen in truth, she thought they might be having trouble letting go of her as well.

"Not too bad," the Master of Protocol said, almost sounding surprised. "We've had a rough list of who goes where for some time now and we've been working to firm it up the last couple of days. We just have a few questions about some people who have gotten married in the past few months."

"You know, at a time like this, I don't think anyone will much care where they're located. And if someone's mind is on what honors they're due instead of what honors Link is due, then they can take their honor and get the hell out of the procession."

The Master of Protocol glanced at the genealogist. The older man shrugged, then he directly the page boys to roll up the parchment.

"We will do as you say, Your Majesty," the Master of Protocol said, turning back to Zelda.

"Good. Now, show me where I'm supposed to be."

He took her by the elbow. "Up front," he said, gently leading her to what looked like—more or less—the head of the line. Katherine was already standing there. Zeyde—and all her other sons and Anne-Marie—were still with the knights in the chapel.

Katherine gave her a brief, pained smile, then went back to looking around the room anxiously. Katherine was a good queen and a good wife to Zeyde, but she had never been the queen Zelda had been—or the king that Link had been, for that matter. Born common—the daughter of Zeyde's tutor—she was always slightly ill-at-ease when it came to large assemblies of court. She always made things work flawlessly, but her nervous nature reminded Zelda of a child who was afraid she was about to be scolded. She looked to the advisors for guidance, whereas Link and Zelda had always just blazed their own trail, telling people what they wanted rather than asking for advice.

Zelda wondered if that was because that was just her and Link's nature, or if their long fight against the demons and Nagadii had caused them to be that way? They had certainly spent a long time doing things their own way, and after facing down a poisonous dragon and the greatest demon of the Dark World, people at court seemed insignificant obstacles indeed.

The Master of Protocol came hurrying up a moment later. "Your Majesties," he said quietly, addressing both women. "We're ready to begin."

Katherine looked to Zelda. It was Zelda who had to nod to the Master of Protocol, giving him the go-ahead.

He signaled the guards, who pulled open the huge front doors. There was a collective gasp from the assembly as the outside air assaulted them. They had grown accustomed to spring days that were almost as warm as summer and balmy nights without a touch of chill. But the temperature had dropped precipitously and there was a dampness in the air that soaked into a person's bones and became hard to dislodge. Overhead, the leaden skies threatened a downpour of rain at any moment.

It seemed that even Hyrule itself grieved Link's passing. That was as it should be, Zelda thought. She didn't know if she could have borne it if it had been warm and sunny and the birds had been singing pleasantly while they had to carry out their heavy duty.

The Master of Protocol discreetly led Zelda out of the castle—the rest of the extended family following her. In the courtyard, they paused as all of the Knights of Hyrule slowly processed out of the chapel. Their visors were up now and Zelda could see that the pallbearers were all of her children. Every knight present was shoeless.

Two knights went first, carrying banners bearing Link's family arms and the royal arms of Hyrule. Then came another knight leading the rider-less horse to signify a fallen soldier. Of everyone present, only Link and Zelda had ever fought in a real battle; they had outlived everyone else who had stood with them so long ago at the Second Battle of Erenrue Fields, much less the ones who had gone with them to the First.

Next came the pallbearers carrying the bier, then Zelda followed it and everyone else followed her. The remaining knights—carrying long tapers which flickered in the cold wind—fell in on either side of the procession, escorting it.

The damp stones under Zelda's feet were cold, but she was already numb inside and out and so hardly noticed. She had cried so much, she was empty inside and it was hard to feel pain; she just felt detached, as if she was in someone else's body.

Most of the castle guard were arrayed on either side of the main gate. As the procession neared, the Captain of the Guard called out an order and all the men came smartly to attention and saluted Link as he passed by. Zelda was surprised to see the salute was not the typical martial one, but the particular gesture of farewell in Kakariko Village. Link had always used it whenever he was sending anyone off, but Zelda had never seen anyone else outside the village use it. But it was appropriate that they should do it for him.

They passed through the gates and into the throngs of the common people. Zelda had been in many processions over the course of her life, but she had never seen so many people in the city before. It seemed as if the sidewalks were so full, they might burst open and spill people out into the street. But despite the great press, everything was eerily silent. It seemed that there wasn't even so much as a dog barking anywhere in the city.

As they passed, people threw flowers and greenery on the road so thickly, Zelda felt as if she was walking on a carpet of flowers instead of a cold road.

The wind began to blow harder until it blew out all of the knights' candles and the sky grew darker until it seemed to be dusk instead of dawn. White petals blew off the blooming trees and filled the air so thickly, it looked like they were walking in a snow storm.

Zelda was reminded of the time she and Link fought the great Storm Demon on top of the mountain in western Erenrue. It had been bitterly cold and blustery then, too. She half-expected a face to appear in the heavy gray clouds above, but none did.

Although the monastery which was their final destination was not terribly far from the castle, they did not take the most direct route. As with any other important event in the lifecycle of the Royal Family, as many people as possible must be allowed to see. So the procession took the longest possible route through the city. And every last inch of pavement and every window overlooking the street was filled with humanity.

Not one of the people watching the procession—and none walking in it—could remember a time before Link and Zelda's reign. They had not just been great monarchs, but they had been a stabilizing force as well; they seemed as eternal as the castle itself. But now, everyone was confronted with the knowledge that a great age was passing and things would never be the same again. Which is why there wasn't a dry eye anywhere Zelda looked; everyone was crying . . . save her.

She lost track of time. She knew only that she was cold to the point of numbness and so weary that she could hardly put one naked foot in front of the other, but she soldiered on, knowing if it had been her on the bier, Link would have walked. Besides, it was something to do. Zelda knew that reality would sink in when she grew still and the gaping hole in her life that she was running from would catch up to her.

When they finally processed outside the city gates, the full strength of the wind—unblocked by buildings—hit them in the face. The knights bore it stoically, never flinching, but the rest of the party bowed their heads to the cutting wind.

The monastery had been enlarged over the years to accommodate the influx of monks from the Westeastern monastery and the dozens of new recruits who flocked to the Academy every year for a chance to prove themselves worthy of the sacred knowledge contained therein. Most came because they wanted to be knights, although less than one in ten ever made it to knighthood. Some found that the trials were too hard; their determination was just not up to the task and they went home to learn an easier trade. Others found that they preferred study to the physical demands and they became scholars or magicians or teachers instead. And some found they were excellent craftsmen and they became blacksmiths.

But despite the growth in the community, the sanctuary at the heart of the compound had not changed. It still looked exactly the same as it had when Link and Zelda had spent hours huddling in blankets around a solitary candle while they played chess and gambled for sweets.

They passed through the sanctuary without stopping. Link had requested that they not give him a full funeral service because he felt it would be too hard on everyone. And everyone had agreed it was best to honor his request, not only because there wasn't a person in Hyrule who could have eulogized him without breaking down, but because there were no words adequate _to_ eulogize him. The only person who could ever speak about such a legendary man was Zelda, but she was the person who least needed words; she shared an understanding with him that went beyond words and that could never even be put into words.

The cortege paused in the Sanctuary so the knights could relight their candles. Most of the mourners stayed there, though, and only the knights, Zelda, and her children went on through the door under the altar and into the old crypt.

Many years before, when the human spouses of the princes and princesses began to die, it became obvious that the crypt under the sanctuary would not be adequate to contain the entire Royal Family and their numerous descendants. So stone masons had been working continuously since that time to carve out a space under the original crypt. Their original plan had been for a circular room which would contain Link and Zelda and their children and their children's spouses, but when the first grandchild died an untimely death, it was decided to enlarge the crypt further to allow multiple generations to be buried there.

The knights fanned out around the circular room so that it was well-lit. In the center of the room was a large stone sarcophagus that Link and Zelda had commissioned long ago when the lingering effects of the dragon's poison had threatened to take them before their time. The lid was off of it, and as soon as the remaining mourners had filed into the chamber, the pallbearers put the bier down, then lifted Link up and laid him inside the tomb.

It struck Zelda then how small Link was. Even in his armor, he had never been a very big man; it was as if he had never gotten a growth spurt as a teenager and had remained stuck in early puberty. He had always been about Zelda's size—and she was borderline petite when compared to other women. All of their children, save Tatiana, were bigger than they were.

Yet for all his diminutive size, Link had done more than any person since the last Hero of old. He had fought against not just men larger than himself, but powerful demons many times his size. He had trekked from one end of the world to the other—and even beyond the world as they knew it—then went back and forth across it a few more times.

A child had once scoffed upon hearing the story of how Link and Zelda had defeated the Dragon Demon; he said it was impossible for two such small people to ever defeat anything so huge. The storyteller had replied, "It's not the size of the dog in the fight, but the size of the fight in the dog."

Link had laughed and used the quote ever after. And it seemed wholly appropriate. He had had a lot of fight in him, and what he lacked, Zelda more than made up for. Even the skeptical child admitted that he would not want to take on Link and Zelda both.

The knights stepped back and, as one, they began to sing a sad melody—their deep voices echoing in the stone chamber until it sounded as if a great chorus was singing.

"Of all the money that e'er I spent,  
I've spent it in good company.  
And all the harm that e'er I've done,  
Alas it was to none but me.  
And all I've done for want of wit,  
To memory now I can't recall.  
So fill to me the parting glass;  
Good night and joy be with you all."

Zelda was immediately taken back to that night one hundred and twenty five years before when she and Link and Rayliss and Sir Elgon and her cousin, Nicoli, had all stood on Rayliss' balcony, watching Nagadii's army marching across the plain towards them. Night fell and they knew that the next day the battle would commence. Link had sung the bittersweet song for them. He had said they sang it for a comrade in the palace guard who was leaving, but he failed to mention it was only rarely sung outside a funeral. He had sung it as a dirge for all of them. Sir Elgon and Rayliss had been captured and spent months locked in a dark, dirty cell under Hyrule Castle. Link had taken an arrow to his shoulder that nearly killed him and which caused him pain for the rest of his life. Nicoli had died; attacked by demons, his own father was forced to kill him before he turned into one. He had just passed his sixteenth birthday.

"A man may drink and not be drunk;  
A man may fight and not be slain;  
A man may court a pretty girl  
And perhaps be welcomed back again.  
But since it has so ought to be,  
By a time to rise and a time to fall,  
Come fill to me the parting glass;  
Good night and joy be with you all."

Not long after the fall of Erenrue, she had sung the song for Link as they huddled in a stone shelter on the side of a mountain. A blizzard trapped them there and they had quickly burned through what remained of their fuel. Link had a fever and was so weak, he couldn't have gone on even if there hadn't been a blizzard. Zelda had held him in her arms and sang what pieces of the song she could remember as they slowly began to freeze to death.

"Of all the comrades that e'er I had,  
They are sorry for my going away.  
And all the sweethearts that e'er I had,  
They would wish me one more day to stay.  
But since it falls unto my lot  
That I should rise and you should not,  
I'll gently rise and I'll softly call,  
Good night and joy be with you all.

Good night and joy be with you all."

As the last note faded away, the emptiness that Zelda had been running from suddenly hit her, leaving her breathless. She reached out, grabbing Katherine by the arm, hanging on as if she were being pulled into a sand pit in the Great Southern Desert.

"Mother Zelda?" Katherine said worriedly.

But Zelda couldn't respond. She needed to cry—needed to scream—but the emptiness was inside her, sucking all the sound and even the very breath out of her.

Link was gone and he was never coming back. But she might live for many years yet; she was a year younger than him and the dragon's poison had never affected her as badly as it had him.

The blank, empty years yawned before her like a dark chasm.

She wasn't aware of Zeyde moving over to her until he spoke. "Mother, are you alright? Are you sick?"

"I think she's having some sort of fit, Zeyde," Katherine whispered. "Or a heart attack. It feels like she's trying to break my arm."

Just past Zeyde, she could see a group of knights lifting the carved tomb lid and carefully setting it atop the tomb—oblivious of what was happening to her.

On the tomb lid, Zelda's life-size image rested beside Link, their hands clasped tightly between them, but it was a lie. She had cheated death. She should be lying beside him in the tomb, clasping his hand in death, but instead, she had been left behind. He had risen and she had not.

"Mother, I think we should take you back," Zeyde said anxiously. He tried to steer her toward the exit, but she didn't budge.

"Mother, please, you're worrying me."

Now, everyone in the room noticed that something was going on, and they turned to watch the Queen Mother.

"My soul is gone," Zelda said in a whisper that all present nonetheless heard. Many shuddered; some made a gesture to ward off evil. But none doubted the veracity of her words. All of them felt as if a piece of themselves had been taken away—as if a light that had always burned had suddenly been snuffed out.

But, for Zelda, it was not _a_ light that was gone; it was _all_ the light.


	2. Link Comes

Zelda's days became one long procession of misery. She didn't want to lie in bed and didn't want to sleep, but when she was up, she didn't want to go anywhere and she was so exhausted, she couldn't have gone very far even if she had left her room. She didn't go to the dining room for meals anymore. One of her attendants brought breakfast, lunch, and dinner to her room like clockwork, but Zelda sent most of it back uneaten. It wasn't that she wasn't hungry, but that she just didn't feel like eating—just as she was tired, but didn't feel like sleeping.

Zeyde and Katherine seemed to be constantly visiting and trying to engage her, but the more they came, the more Zelda became annoyed by their presence. She didn't want their pity and she especially didn't want their lectures on how Link wouldn't want her to lock herself away, how he would want her to remain active because she was needed, etc.

She didn't need them to tell her what Link would think! She had known the man for more than one hundred and twenty-five years. They had been through hell together—to the very door of death—and back again. They could speak to one another without uttering a word. There were no secrets between them; a look or a gesture or a sigh said everything.

She knew Link's mind better than anyone else. And she knew what he would say to her at the moment. The ghost of his voice was already nagging her in her mind; she didn't need her children nagging her, too.

* * *

Katherine and Zeyde were sitting together at breakfast. Normally they ate in the main dining hall with the rest of their family—all their heirs down to the sixth generation—but since Link's death, they had started taking breakfast alone so they could have some quiet time. Zeyde, like his mother, was struggling emotionally. But the business of the kingdom couldn't stop completely—not even for so illustrious person as Link. And since Katherine was not a co-ruling monarch the way that Link had been, all of the work fell on Zeyde alone. But it was a blessing in a way, because it kept him from sinking into the same depression that Zelda was in.

"I'm worried about your mother," Katherine said as she spread butter on her croissant.

"You and everybody else," Zeyde said listlessly. He looked as tired as he sounded. It was strange to see; he had always had his parents' energy and was constantly looking for something to engage him mentally or physically. Now, however, he seemed like an old man, hunched-back and despondent. It even looked like his gray hairs had doubled overnight.

"I don't know what else to do," Katherine continued. "It's not like we can drag her out of her room and make her start living again."

A thin smile passed across Zeyde's lips—the first smile Katherine had seen from him since his father had become ill. "If we tried it, she'd kick all of our asses."

Then he chuckled softly.

"I'm being serious, Zeyde."

"I am, too. You'd have an easier time giving a cat a bath than making my mother do something she doesn't want to do." He picked up a sweet bun and took a bite, looking more animated than he had in some time. "See," he said, as he chewed, "you don't remember Mother when she was young, like I do."

"I grew up here in the castle, just like you," Katherine said, somewhat indignant. She had always been proud of the fact that her father had been the tutor of the royal children and she had grown up on the grounds with them as her playmates.

"You grew up here, but not around her—not like I did," Zeyde pointed out. "She was careful not to show her dark side if she could help it. Truly, she tried her best to keep her temper in check. But I saw her unleash it occasionally. It was like an earthquake. Or, as Father said, like a storm at sea. It was something terrible to behold. I fully expected that she would strike people dead just by looking at them, like an avenging goddess.

"She's mellowed over the years, but don't ever think that sleeping dragon doesn't still live within her. If you catch her wrong, you may just see it rise once again. And you'll understand how she endured—and triumphed—during the Dark Days."

"Your Father went through the same things, but he never seemed to have a temper."

Zeyde actually laughed. "How could he have one? Mother had it all locked up. Someone had to be the reasonable one."

He leaned back in his chair, his eyes dreamy and far away. "No, they were opposites in that regard; Mother could give you a tongue-lashing that would draw blood. Father, on the other hand, always knew what to say to make you feel better. He could make you feel pride or hope or happiness. Or he could make you feel ashamed. Oh, gods, could he make you feel ashamed! He saw me push my brother down one day—I couldn't have been but about six years old—and he gave me such a talking to! He never raised his voice, but he didn't have to; just his words and the fact that he was so obviously disappointed in me made me want to crawl into a hole in the ground and hide. I don't know if I ever felt sorry for pushing my brother, but I certainly felt sorry that I had let my father down. And I never did it again."

He was silent for a time, still staring into space, seeing back into the past. Tears began to slowly leak from the corners of his eyes. He began to dab at them with his napkin.

"He was such a fine man," Zeyde said, his voice cracking with emotion.

Katherine reached over and put her hand over her husband's. He squeezed it tightly.

It took him a few minutes to compose himself, but he eventually put his napkin down and returned to his breakfast. He looked quite focused on what he was doing, as if he needed to concentrate very hard on what was before him, lest he lose control over his emotions again.

"We have nothing to offer Mother," he told his wife as he began to put food on his plate. "She had Father and there's nothing we can offer that would ever compare."

"I'm not suggesting that she try to replace him. Gods know no one would expect her to remarry."

Zeyde shook his head. "That's not what I meant." He glanced at her. "She and my Father were like . . . like two sides to the same coin. Where she was firm, he was gentle. Where she was serious, he was light-hearted. When she needed to be powerful, he was her strength.

"I won't say that he was all that was good in my mother, because she's a good person on her own. But . . . he brought that out in her, I think. She told me once that she had lived in a cage before Father came along to set her free. He loved her for who she was and he encouraged her to be true to herself. I think without her, she would have been a queen of ice. He was her fire.

"But now her fire has gone out. And there's nothing we can do to replace it—nothing we could even offer that would light the fire within her again—not even a little."

He turned away, his voice sad. "We must accept that something within my mother has died and it will never come back."

* * *

It was late at night and Zelda was lying in bed. She was probably asleep, but she thought she wasn't. She often felt like that—not quite asleep, not fully awake.

She hadn't sleep so poorly since the Dark Days, when fear kept her awake at night. But Link's presence had driven away all fear and allowed her to sleep in peace. Now it seemed that even her subconscious was aware that her room was empty and she stayed half-alert all the time—although it wasn't clear if it was because she was afraid or if she was constantly looking for Link's return.

And then she woke suddenly, as if struck by lightning. In fact, she was pretty sure she saw a flash of white light in her vision.

How could she have not thought of it before!?

She scrambled to get out of bed and hurriedly donned a robe and slippers. Moving faster than she had in some years, she went along the silent hallway and down the stairs to the first floor. She had to catch herself on the railing on the last step; she felt a little dizzy from the exertion. Hunger roared to life in her, making it feel as if her stomach was turning itself inside out. But she ignored it, and as soon as she caught her breath, she was on the move again.

She made a beeline for the side door that led to the chapel. She crossed the raised walkway outside and stopped in front of the two guards posted outside the chapel door.

"Open the door," she demanded.

One of the guards hurried to obey her. He inserted the key into the lock, turned it, then opened the door for her.

"I am not to be disturbed," she commanded, sounding very much like the Zelda who had once been queen.

"Yes, Your Majesty," the guard replied.

She pointed a gnarled finger at him. "And you are not to tell anyone I'm here. Not now, not ever."

"This door has been locked all night. I never unlocked it."

She offered him a fleeting smile. "Good man." Then she patted him on the arm. "I'm glad I kept you. I knew you wouldn't let me down."

"No, ma'am," he said fervently.

Like so many others, Oskar had been a lost soul rescued by the king and queen. His father had died when he was young and he grew up on the poor side of town, causing trouble and breaking his widowed mother's heart. One day, when he was just seventeen, he got into an argument with an older man over a dice game. The man pulled a knife on him and he pulled his own in retaliation. He ended up with a superficial cut, but the other man died from a stab wound to the belly.

Oskar had found himself before Link and Zelda, trying to argue that he had killed only in self-defense. He had been arrogant and even angry—feeling that he was the victim of a great injustice—but his mother had taken a different tack and she had prostrated herself before the king and queen and, sobbing, begged for the life of her only child.

The more Oskar and his mother spoke, the angrier Zelda became. Even Link was frowning unhappily. Finally, Zelda could contain herself no longer and she jumped to her feet and all but ran down the dais steps to him.

He was shocked that such a small, frail old woman could be so scary.

Then she began to slap him and his fear increased tenfold.

"Look at what you've done to your mother!" she had yelled at him. She caught him by the ear and dragged him down until he was on his knees, whimpering in pain. "Look at what you've done!"

His mother was watching the scene with shock on her tear-stained face.

"This woman risked her life to bring you into the world!" Zelda shrieked at him. "You will never know the pain she went through to deliver you. Or how much she has had to sacrifice to keep you fed and clothed and alive up to this day. And how do you repay her? By becoming a delinquent! By throwing away a free education that your grandparents would have died to have and choosing to remain an ignorant savage! And the shame! I can't imagine how ashamed your mother must be to look her neighbors in the eyes, knowing that you've been stealing from them or destroying their property.

But even though you've made her hard life so much harder, she's still here on her knees, trying to save your life. You'll let your mother shame herself for you, but you think you're too good to do it for yourself."

Then she pulled him back to his feet—still holding him painfully by the ear—and dragged him out of the throne room. The rest of the court—including Link—followed silently behind her.

She took him behind the castle, to a closed-off courtyard that was hidden from view. It was there that Oskar saw a heavy, red-stained block of wood sitting on top of a pile of straw.

Zelda pushed his head down on the block and he could smell the blood that had seeped into the old wood. It was then that he realized he was going to die. And it scared him. The years since his father had died came back to him in a flash and he realized that he had wasted all of them. Now that he was facing certain death, he wanted more than ever to live. But he had pissed away his chance.

"Give me a sword," Zelda demanded.

Without hesitation, Link pulled out his sword and handed it to her.

Oskar flinched as she brought the blade close to his face. "Is this what you want? To die?"

He shook his head—as much as he was able to; Zelda had him pinned rather tightly to the block.

"Then why are you living with one foot in the Other World?" she asked. "Why are you living as if there will be no tomorrow? As if there will be no reckoning? Obviously you think you aren't answerable to your mother, but did you think you weren't answerable to me? Or to the gods?"

"No," he squeaked out. Already tears were falling from his eyes and wetting the block.

"You sure haven't acted like it. You act like you have nothing to live for. So why shouldn't I kill you right now?"

Oskar had no answer to that—no good one anyway.

He could hear his mother sobbing uncontrollably on the other side of the courtyard, but no one else present made a sound; they just stared at him, waiting for whatever came next.

"I want to live," he mumbled.

Zelda leaned closer. "Say that again."

"I want to live," he said a little louder.

"Why should I let you live? You will just hurt your mother more. It would be better for her if you just died so she can go ahead and mourn you instead of watching you die every day right in front of her."

He heard his mother wail even louder.

"I won't hurt her," he said.

"Louder."

"I won't hurt her anymore!" he said loudly, his voice echoing off the stone enclosure.

"Will you get your life right?" she demanded.

"Yes."

"Yes, what?" she said, pressing his head harder.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

After an agonizingly long moment, she finally let go of him. She glared at him for a minute—he felt himself wilt under her gaze—then she finally returned Link's sword.

"I don't know if I can trust you," she said. "It's easy to slip back into bad habits—hang around friends who are a bad influence."

"I promise I won't," he swore.

"Not good enough." She glanced at her Captain of the Guard. "Do we have an opening at the castle?"

"We have one if Your Majesty wants one," the captain replied smoothly.

She pointed to Oskar. "Put him to work. He's to train to be a guard. And in his free time, he's to go school with the other children until he graduates. I won't abide willful ignorance in my presence."

"No, Your Majesty," the captain said. "I will see to it that he completes his studies."

She glared down at Oskar, who was still on his knees. "If you don't, then we can come back here and finish what we started."

Oskar never saw the inside of that courtyard again. It took him nearly three years—and he had to swallow his pride on more than one occasion being a grown man and still in a classroom with the castle children—but he finished his studies and became a model guard. The day he graduated from school, Zelda called him into her presence and released him from her service, saying he had completed his punishment. But he had gone down on his knee to beg to remain at the castle, in her employ. She readily consented and he had been there ever since. He had even married one of the cooks from the kitchen and their own three children were growing up in the castle, going to the same school that he had once attended.

Oskar knew that the queen had saved his life by scaring him straight and she had given him the chance to redeem himself. And although King Zeyde was now the one who paid his wages and commanded his loyalty, Queen Zelda was the one who had his utter devotion. He would never be able to pay her back for what she had done for him; all he could do was love her with his whole heart.

"Give me the keys," Zelda said, holding out her hand. Oskar gave them to her without question.

"I'll come out when I'm ready to come out. Do not disturb me."

"Yes, Your Majesty. And may I assume if someone were to come by and want in, I should not let them in?"

"You assume correctly," she said. "Tell them whatever excuse you want, but do not let them in."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

She disappeared inside and shut the door behind her. A moment later, there was a metallic _click_ as she locked herself inside.

"I wonder what that's about?" his companion whispered.

"I don't know and it's not for me to know," Oskar said firmly to the younger man. "And it's not for you to know, either. Now, never speak a word of this again—not to me or anyone else—or you'll lose a lot more than your job."

* * *

Inside, the chapel was dark, save for dim moonlight shining through the lead-glass windows. But it was enough that Zelda could see the cabinets on either side of the altar at the other end of the room. She made for the right-hand one and used Oskar's keys to unlock the case.

It had been a very long time since she had held the Soul Scepter in her hand. She had used it at her coronation because Nagadii had stolen the kingdom's scepter and it was never recovered. When the kingdom became prosperous again, she had commissioned a new one which she used for formal state occasions.

She had only used it to call up the dead a handful of times, and the last time had been more than a century before. She understood the seductive power of the scepter, and she understood that the dead were best left to rest in the Other World. But now, she didn't care a fig for what was right or wrong.

She held the heavy gold and opal-studded scepter above her head. "I call forth Link." Then she waited.

. . . Was it her imagination, or was nothing happening?

The Great Fairy had warned her that the dead would respond only if they wanted to; even the Scepter couldn't force them out of the Other World if they didn't want to come.

But why wouldn't Link want to come to her? Hadn't he said himself that he would always come for her?

Had something gone wrong? Did someone have to be dead a certain length of time before they could be called?

"Link . . ." she pleaded in a whisper.

And then, in the weak light, she saw a fog moving across the floor. She breathed a sigh of relief as the fog began to rise and coalesce into a humanoid shape that was mostly opaque, but as intangible as smoke. Then the features sharpened until she was looking at Link once again.

She was surprised—but pleasantly so—to see that his ghostly form had been restored to its youth. He looked as he had when they first met—a young man of seventeen or eighteen years—wearing the garb of Kakariko—down to the floppy stocking cap. His shoulders, which had been hunched forward in pain for so many years, were back and his posture as straight as a ruler. His unruly hair was thick and his eyes bright and clear. His face was unlined by age and, Zelda was extra surprised to see, unlined by Tarsus' scars. She had become so accustomed to seeing the white, parallel scars running from his cheek to his throat, she had forgotten what he looked like without them. All the portraits in the castle—even his tomb effigy—were of him after the scars; none showed him as he had been before he went on their quest.

Zelda was so happy to see him again, she couldn't speak. It felt as if her heart was going to swell and burst out of her chest.

Link, however, didn't look like he felt the same. His face was blank, but his eyes disapproved. And when he spoke, he confirmed it. "Zelda, why did you bring me here?"

She was a little taken aback. "You have to ask?"

"You should have let me be."

She was even more startled. This did not seem like her Link at all. Where was the man who insisted she lay beside him on his death bed and cuddle and laugh like old times?

"I . . ." It was a rare occurrence, but Zelda was left speechless.

Link's eyes softened ever so slightly. "Zelda, you know the dangers of doing this—of living in the past. You need to stay in the land of the living."

"But, I don't want to be here. I want to be with you."

"Don't be so quick to throw away life. Don't you think I would like to have it back again?"

"If I had been the one to die, you'd feel the same as me," she accused.

"That's different."

They looked at one another for a moment, then both laughed.

"You always were a hypocrite," Zelda said. "Remember how you used to tell me I couldn't curse, but then you'd do it?"

"As I kept trying to tell you, people expect different things out of men and women—especially queens."

"I didn't hear anyone complaining about my reign."

"Sweetheart, they were too afraid to complain."

She probably should have felt guilty about that—because it was mostly true—but it only made her laugh more.

He stepped up to her and lifted a ghostly hand to her face. She felt a cool air lightly brush over her skin. "I have missed hearing you laugh," he said sadly.

"Have you been watching me?" she whispered.

"Yes." There was pain in his eyes. "Watching, but unable to do anything to ease your pain. Death takes away most emotions, but even it could not stop me from feeling love for you—or from hurting when I see you hurting."

"I'm sorry I made you hurt," she said truthfully. She had no idea that Link would suffer along with her.

"There's no helping that," he replied. "What was it that Zeyde told Katherine the other day? We're two sides of the same coin. In life or death, what happens to one of us happens to the other."

"Have you been watching Zeyde, too?" she asked, curious.

"Yes. He is hurting much more than he lets on. And he fears losing you, too. All your talk of wanting to die makes him very afraid. He's not ready to lose both of us yet."

That did make Zelda feel guilty. She hadn't stopped to think what Link's death—and her own—would mean to her children. They were all grown with children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren of their own, so she didn't think about protecting them from the harsh realities of the world as she had when they were children. But, she supposed, even adults might fear the world more without their parents in it. Although Zeyde had been king for four years, his parents had always been available for advice. And if anything truly awful had happened, they would have stepped up to help. Even now, Zelda commanded activities around the castle when Katherine was unsure of herself.

Without Link and Zelda, they were completely and totally on their own. There would be no more help and no more advice. They would have to figure out everything on their own. Their safety net would be gone.

"Now do you see why you must stay?" Link said, watching her carefully as if he could read her mind.

She looked at him, her feelings conflicted. "But it's hard."

"Of course it's hard. But that's never stopped you from accomplishing anything before." He pressed his hand against her cheek again. If Zelda closed her eyes, she could almost feel his touch. "Where's my warrior-woman?" he asked softly. "Where's the girl who snuck out of her room every night and went off onto the plain alone?"

She smiled a little at the memory, then opened her eyes to look at him. "She got old."

He laughed. "Old, perhaps, but she's not gone." He grinned. "I heard you arguing with Zeyde at my wake, threatening to take back your crown."

"So much for telepathy being silent."

He shrugged unrepentantly. "Nonetheless, my argument stands."

She sighed. "So, what exactly do you expect me to do?"

"Be there for Zeyde. Help Katherine. Be seen around the castle. You've been living with one foot on the Other Side and trying to force your way in. Put both feet firmly back in the land of the living and let people see you that way. That will give everyone courage."

"I don't want people to think that I'm heartless—that I don't mourn you."

"Sweetheart, I don't think anyone thinks that of you. I think people are much more worried about you mourning too much."

Zelda considered this for a moment. "I'll do it one condition."

"Damnit, Zelda, this isn't a trade," he said, half-annoyed, but also half-amused. "You're supposed to be doing this to help others."

"I've put others ahead of myself all my life. I think I'm owed a favor in return."

"What?"

"You come to me in the evenings."

He was shaking his head before she finished her sentence. "You haven't heard a word I've said. You're supposed to keep your feet in the land of the _living_ ; you won't be doing that if you're calling me up every night. _This_ is the problem."

"I can play my role all day long, so long as I know I can spend time with you in the evenings," she argued. "I have to have something for myself. At the end of the day, I have to have a little something for myself."

Link sighed and turned away. He was quiet for a moment, but Zelda already knew that he would give in. He always gave in.

"Very well," he said, looking at her again. "If you promise to abandon all your talk of dying, and you engage with Zeyde and the others normally, I will come whenever you call." He held up his finger. "But I'm going to hold you to that. If you get all sullen and reclusive again, I won't come."

"Fair enough," she agreed. Then she smiled, feeling better than she had in days.

* * *

Everyone noticed a change in Zelda. She began joining the family for breakfast again, eating with a ravenous hunger that was rather surprising. Then she would plead weariness from her age and leave to take a "nap" that lasted until nearly supper. She would visit privately with Zeyde and Katherine for a little while, just to discuss the affairs of the kingdom, then they would go to dinner with the court. Afterwards, she would spend some time with the young children, listening to them play their instruments or show off their schoolwork, and then she would tell them a story and put them to bed.

She would then retire to her room for the evening and work on her correspondence or read something until the castle was quiet and still. And then, just as in her youth, she would sneak out—going back hallways and staircases she knew to be unguarded—and go to the chapel to spend her nights with Link. When dawn came, she would go back to her room, change her clothes, and begin again.

Katherine was a little worried that Zelda spent so much time sleeping—she, of course, had no idea that Zelda stayed awake all night long—but Zeyde was so happy to have his mother back, he dismissed her concerns.

"She's older than anyone since the coming of humans to our shores," he said. "I'm not surprised that she needs to sleep a lot. And maybe she's just saying that she's going to take a nap; maybe she really just needs some time alone. She's still not over Father's death, even if she's better than she was. Let her have her time alone, so long as we get her a little bit every day."

And so it was, with a bit of intentional ignorance on Zeyde's part, that no one, save the guards at the chapel door, knew that Zelda was sneaking out of her room every night. And even the guards had no idea what she did locked up in the chapel for hours. They could only assume that she was going in there to privately pray and mourn. The thick stone walls muffled the sound of voices and laughter all night long.

This routine continued for a little over a year. Zelda adapted to it until she hardly noticed Link's physical absence. As long as she got to spend time with him every evening, that was enough to sustain her. She still missed having him in bed beside her, but she didn't notice his absence so much when she slept during the daytime. She felt as if she was really just taking a nap.

And then one dark summer's night, when she called Link, he came to her with a peculiar look on his face.

"What's wrong?" she immediately asked.

He held out his hand. "Do you want to come with me?"

"Come where?"

He perked a brow. "Where do you think, silly?"

She looked at him skeptically. "Is this a trick?"

"Would I joke about death?"

"Yes. I seem to recall you were none too somber when you were facing your own death."

He couldn't help but chuckle. "True. Maybe a better question is, 'Have I ever tricked you?'"

"No," she admitted."

"Then you should probably assume I'm not tricking you this time."

"But . . . why? Why are you offering this to me now when you wouldn't before?"

"I suppose the gods think you deserve it. You have upheld your end of the bargain with me and have worked hard to stay cheerful. Zeyde and the others feel better about things and won't take your death quite so hard—especially now that they have good memories of you again. If you had followed me, they would have remembered you as lost and broken."

"So I did a good job and am being rewarded with death?"

He spread his hands. "It's up to you. No one can live forever, but you can choose when to go—now or later."

"Would you come for me again if I postponed it?"

"Of course."

Zelda considered her options for a minute. Then she looked up at Link again. "My time has passed. Zeyde and Katherine must have the freedom to rule completely on their own, not live constantly in our shadow."

"We have certainly made our mark on the world."

"Yes, but now it's time to let someone else make a mark."

Link smiled at her, then held out his hand again. This time, she put her hand in his. She was surprised, though, that she was able to feel his hand so completely. It was no longer the cool air of a ghostly caress; he felt as real and solid as ever.

She happened to glance behind her, only to see herself lying on the floor. It was strange to be looking down on herself. She somehow looked older and smaller from the outside.

She turned back to Link to see him smiling at her in all his physical glory. Gone was the white, smoky form; now his skin was flush with color and his eyes as blue as ever.

"It's good to really touch you again," he said. Then he leaned in and kissed her. It was just like she remembered, and as she melted into him, they seemed to fall back into nothingness. But it didn't matter where they were going, so long as they were going there together.

* * *

Oskar grew nervous as the sun rose higher and Queen Zelda didn't appear. She had always emerged from the chapel around dawn and he knew that she went to breakfast with the Royal Family shortly thereafter. He was afraid if she didn't appear soon, someone would start looking for her. And while he was willing to lie for her—he owed her that—the thought made him uncomfortable. He didn't want to have to lie to the king.

Finally, he rapped his knuckles on the door. "Your Majesty?" he asked quietly.

A minute passed without a response. He knocked a little louder. "Your Majesty?"

He still got no response.

"What if something's happened to her?" his companion asked.

Oskar frowned. What if something _had_ happened to her? It would be his fault that she hadn't gotten medical treatment. But at the same time, what if she had just fallen asleep? She would be none too happy if he came in with the king to expose whatever secrets she had in there.

But a decision had to be made soon; his shift would be over in an hour or less and he didn't dare walk away with the Queen Mother still locked inside. No one would know to check on her.

"Go down to the Captain on Duty and get the spare key," Oskar said in a low voice. "Tell him . . . tell him that the Queen Mother wants to get into the chapel, but my key has bent and it won't work. You need the key right now because she wants to pray before breakfast and is in a hurry. Don't let him come back with you; just get the key!"

The young man ran off while Oskar continued to knock and call for Zelda. But there was still no answer by the time the breathless guard returned several minutes later.

Oskar unlocked the door and stepped into the chapel. His eyes went immediately to the frail little figure lying on the floor, bathed in the sunlight streaming through the eastern window.

"Go get the king. Quick!" Oskar ordered the other man.

When Zeyde came running in a few minutes later, the first thing he saw was his mother lying on the floor, but the bright light smoothed the lines on her face so that, for a brief second, Zeyde felt he was seeing his mother as she had been when she had been in her youth. The Dark Days had not yet forged her and Link hadn't yet freed her. She was unformed potential—a girl of duty, but also a young woman full of passion, longing to be free.

His feet carried him numbly forward, and then the light changed and he saw his mother's face as he knew it once again.

Oskar was kneeling beside her, holding her hand in his and trying vainly not to cry. "She's gone, sire," he mumbled. "She's gone."

Zeyde stared down at her, not comprehending that his mother was really gone. Unlike Link, she hadn't even been sick. She had been chipper the night before when she had kissed him goodnight before retiring to her room.

This was totally unexpected.

Then he saw the golden scepter lying on the floor beside her, as if it had just rolled out of her hand.

"What was she doing in here?" Zeyde heard himself ask.

Oskar tried to dash the tears from his eyes. His oath to his queen was gone now; his loyalty to his king had to take precedence. "She's been coming in here every night for ages, Your Majesty. Since . . . since just after your father died, I think."

"Every night?" Zeyde asked, bewildered.

"Yes, sire. She came late—after everyone was in bed—and stayed until about dawn. I assumed she wanted to pray or something. But she never said why she was here and it wasn't my place to ask."

Zeyde stared at the Soul Scepter and suddenly everything clicked into place. He now understood why his mother had recovered after his father's death—why she had been like her old self after teetering so close to the brink. Her "naps" that lasted all day . . . it all made sense now.

A moment later, Katherine rushed in, breathless, but stopped in shock when she saw Zelda lying on the floor.

Zeyde looked up at her. "Father came for her last night."

She slowly walked over and put her arms around him, resting her cheek against his shoulder. "I'm so sorry, darling."

Zeyde was fighting against his tears, but quickly losing. "It's . . . it's better this way," he said, as his throat tightened, threatening to choke off his words. "She stayed for us, but she wanted to go with him. Now . . . now they're together."

Then he broke down and began to cry in earnest.


	3. Proposal and Rejection

_Three thousand years later_

Prince Astir stood out on his balcony, taking the night air. The day had been hot, but the temperature had dropped when the sun set, and now it was the perfect temperature. Even the slight breeze felt as comfortable as bath water.

Although it was approaching midnight, there were many lights in the courtyard below and people were darting to and fro, as busy as if it was the middle of the day. The next day was Prince Astir's eighteenth birthday and everyone was still busy preparing for it. He would finally come into his majority and the Council which had been ruling Hyrule in his name since he had been an infant would step back and be his advisors only. Tomorrow, he would become king.

But the title would be unofficial, since he wasn't having his coronation just yet. He was a romantic at heart—having grown up on stories of Link and Zelda—and he wanted to have a wedding and joint coronation. The thought of ruling the kingdom alone didn't bother him—he was willing to do it for as long as it took to find the right bride—but he felt that something would be missing if he didn't have a queen. He held Link and Zelda's example to be ideal: two people with different ideas and temperaments nonetheless working in unison. It created a balance so that weaknesses were negated and strengths tempered just enough to keep the country from steering too strongly in one direction.

A knock at the bedroom door took him away from his appreciation of the night. He hobbled back into his room on his crippled left foot. "Enter," he called out.

Addison, the Lord High Chancellor, entered and bobbed his head a little in a gesture of respect. For as long as Prince Astir could remember, Addison had been doing that. Even when the prince was only a little boy, Addison had always dipped his head before addressing him—even if he was about to scold him or tell him "no."

"Highness, everything is on schedule for tomorrow."

"Thank you."

"Is there anything you else you need tonight?"

"I can't think of anything. Go to bed."

"Thank you, sire. I think I will," he said, rubbing his temple. Astir knew Addison wasn't feeling well if he agreed to go to bed without protest when there was still work to be done. Addison was one of those anxious people who always seemed to be worried about something and felt it necessary to personally supervise every little detail to make sure nothing went wrong. It seemed to contribute to him having frequent headaches and upset stomach, though.

After Addison left, Astir limped back to the balcony and resumed his place overlooking the busy courtyard. Despite the Lord High Chancellor's absence, everything seemed to still be moving efficiently.

Astir wondered if he should offer to demote Addison. He didn't want to insult the older man, but there was really no need for him to have a Lord High Chancellor once he was king; despite the club foot he had been born with, he was perfectly capable of governing the kingdom with just his advisors; he need not have a right-hand man.

Poor Addison. Eighteen years ago, he had been a young man—the younger son of a minor noble—fresh out of school and anxious to please. The former king and queen had apprenticed him to their aging Master of Protocol, and his job had been to advise them in matters of court etiquette and make sure that everyone at formal occasions processed in the correct order and that all of their proper titles were announced.

Then, when Astir was not yet a year old, word came of a horrible plague striking Shi-Ha and killing large numbers of people. Everyone waited nervously for news every day, praying that the plague would stop before it spread. Then came a warning a couple of weeks later: it was in Meridor.

The king and queen hurried to try to seal off Hyrule's borders and stop all trade outside the kingdom in hopes of keeping the plague out. They and their advisors worked day and night passing edicts and personally overseeing the building of protective fences around many of the villages—especially to the east—to try and keep out strangers who might be carrying the disease.

Out of an overabundance of caution, they bundled up their infant son—whom they already worried about because of his deformed foot—and gave him to his nurse to take into the safety of exile. Addison was chosen to accompany them because he was the least-needed person at court in a time of crisis.

Addison and Marim had travelled north to a small fishing village on the border of Hyrule and Erenrue. There, Addison assumed control of the village, under the authority of the king and queen, and he had the villagers construct a stockade around the small cluster of houses. And there they hunkered down and waited.

Three months later, Addison, Marim, and Prince Astir emerged into a much emptier world. The plague had been especially virulent among adults, leaving few behind to take care of thousands of orphaned children. Some of the villages, which had managed to maintain their isolation, survived intact, but almost none of the older nobles had survived. When Addison and Marim had crept back into the castle, they found it empty and dusty. The king and queen and all their advisors were dead.

Addison, barely twenty years old and with little experience even in his chosen field, suddenly found himself one of the highest-ranking nobles and the most-senior advisor in Hyrule. He was also the guardian of the sole heir of Hyrule. He had become the Lord High Chancellor by default and had to juggle running a kingdom suddenly devoid of most of its adult population but still full of helpless children, while being father and tutor both to the orphaned prince.

It was definitely more than he bargained for when he had first accepted a position at the castle. And, perhaps, it was time for him to be relieved of the burden that he had carried for too long. But Astir would have to ask delicately, because the last thing he wanted was for his foster-father to feel unappreciated, shunted aside, and forgotten. He had displayed the very greatest traits of nobility and self-sacrifice for the kingdom and Astir didn't want to do anything to insult him. But, at the same time, he wanted Addison to be able to slow down and enjoy life without being so overburdened that it caused him frequent headaches and stomach ulcers.

He decided that he would speak to Addison about it sometime after his birthday party. Even if he was coming into his majority the next day and would be king in all but name, he would still need Addison's counsel while he assumed the reins of government.

Because his party wasn't just a birthday party; it was his "coming out" party. The young prince had been secreted inside the castle for eighteen years, his health jealously guarded. He had grown up without any playmates and he had never met any of his nobles. Even the fact that he was crippled in one foot wasn't known outside the castle.

But tomorrow night, all the nobles would attend his birthday party and they would finally see their prince for the first time and he would get to know the other young people in his kingdom who—like him—either recently came into their inheritances, or would soon.

The other purpose—in Astir's mind, _the_ purpose—of the party was for him to meet all the eligible young women in the kingdom and see if any looked like potential wife/queen material. Although he was willing to go without a coronation until he could find someone to be his queen, that didn't mean he wanted to wait for years to find the right girl.

* * *

The next day was terribly long; it seemed to Prince Astir that the time would never pass. He was so eager for his party, he could hardly sit still. He would no more sit down to do something than he'd jump up and pace around.

"Nervous?" Addison asked while he watched the Grooms of the Wardrobe dress Astir for the party. The prince was fussing with the sleeves of his doublet, making sure that the ruffled cuffs of his undershirt peeked out from under the doublet sleeves just so.

"Not on your life!" Astir exclaimed, still fiddling with his sleeve.

"Excited?" Addison guessed.

"Very much so," Astir said, looking up at his foster-father with shining eyes. "This is the first party I've ever had. This is the first time I've ever met my people. And maybe tonight will be the first time I meet my future wife. What's not to be excited about?"

Addison smiled a little. "I'm glad that it pleases you, my prince."

"I am very pleased indeed," Astir said, turning to look at himself in the full-length mirror nearby. He smoothed his hands over the dark blue velvet doublet—its silver buttons shining in the candlelight. "I am pleased," he repeated, admiring his reflection.

He was a handsome young man who smiled easily. He couldn't quite be classified as tall, but he was a little taller than average. His shoulders were wide and built for muscle, but because his club foot kept him from being very active or pursuing knighthood, his actual body was slender. His hair, which had been blond in infancy and early childhood, had settled into a very light brown and it hung in loose curls. His nurse, Marim, had always remarked that his eyes were as blue as a cloudless summer day and it was true; they were so perfectly blue, it was startling.

One of the grooms brought over a coronet and started to reach up to put it on Astir's head, but he waved him off. "Not yet."

"Why not?" Addison asked, looking confused.

"I've been thinking about it," Astir said, "and I think I would like to go incognito—at least at the start."

Addison was silent for a moment—maybe from shock, or maybe just from confusion. "Incognito? How can you go to your own party secretly? People expect the host to be there."

"And I will be," Astir said, turning to the older man. "I just want to take the opportunity—while no one knows who I am—to mingle. You know, see what people think about me."

"Highness, this is not a good idea . . ."

Astir perked a brow. "Why? Do you think that they will say something bad about me?"

"I doubt it, because they don't know you. But it feels like a trick, and people don't like to be tricked."

"It's not a trick," Astir argued. "I just feel that people will be more genuine if they don't know they're talking to their king. And I think women will be that way, too." He turned back to the mirror for one last look. "I don't want to marry a woman who is only interested in my crown. I want one who likes me—who would marry me, even if I hadn't been born a prince."

Addison sighed the weary sigh of a man hard put-upon. Before, he would have tried harder to convince Astir that this wasn't a very good idea, but now that his ward was of age, he was trying to back off and let Astir make more choices for himself—even if they weren't terribly wise.

"So we will not announce you when you go into the hall?" Addison asked.

"No. I will enter just like everyone else. But you must announce that I've been detained by business and that everyone should begin without me. Start the music and let people dance. I'll tell you when I'm ready to be revealed."

"Very good, sire."

A short time later, Astir walked into the throne room, which had been converted to a ballroom. He was late to arrive, so the room was already full of people. Astir paused just inside the doorway, looking at the spectacle. He had never seen so many people gathered together at once. Their clothing was a riot of color, and gems and metal embroidery threads glittered and sparkled under the light of the massive chandeliers. Everywhere there was noise—pleasant noise, full of laughter and happy voices.

Astir took a long moment to drink it all in, then he glanced at Addison, who had discreetly followed him in. He gave the older man a small nod, then he began walking towards the nearest cluster of people. Addison took a different route through the crowd, making a beeline for the dais at the other end of the hall.

A couple of minutes later, Addison climbed the stairs, then stopped on the next-to-top step. The crowd began to grow quiet as people noticed him. It fell silent a moment later when he raised his hand.

"Ladies and gentlemen, honored guests, I regret to inform you that His Highness has been detained on a matter of state and will be arriving later than anticipated. He sends his deepest apologies and will join you as soon as he can. In the meantime, he bade me invite you to begin without him. So, please, feel free to help yourself to refreshments," Addison said, gesturing to the tables of foods and delicacies lining the wall, "and enjoy yourselves. Thank you."

He gave everyone a slight bow, then descended the stairs and disappeared into the crowd.

"We've waited all this time to see the prince, and he's late to his own party!" exclaimed one of the young men in the crowd that Astir had joined.

"I guess they're not going to wait for him to be crowned before they load him up with affairs of state," a woman said.

"You think it could wait," the young man said, still sounding personally affronted.

"Well, I don't care if he's here or not," another woman said over the music that was just starting. "I want to dance."

Astir was quick to hold his hand out to her. "May I have the first dance?" he asked.

She smiled and put her hand in his. "Certainly."

Astir led her through the milling crowd, closer to the orchestra and the dance floor. It was only then that she noticed his limp and, looking down, she spied his left foot, twisted in at almost a ninety degree angle.

"Ca-can you dance?" she stuttered, looking at his club foot in something approaching horror.

"Yes," he said confidently. He had been tutored in dancing for years. He couldn't dance the faster country dances and reels, but he could do them if they were slow, and he could waltz with a partner.

They took the floor and Astir put his right arm around her, his hand firmly in the center of her back, between her shoulder blades, and he took her right hand in his left and proceeded to confidently—albeit slowly—waltz with her.

"What's your name, m'lady?" he asked.

"I am Justine, Duchess of the Lands of the Southern Sea."

"Ah, you're a cousin to the prince."

"A second cousin, yes." She smiled a little. "Does that impress you?"

He laughed. "Maybe," he said evasively. "But, really, I was just hoping you might know what's detaining him."

She shook her head—her dangling diamond earrings flashing in the candlelight. "I have no clue. I've never even met him before."

"Really? You've never met your own cousin?"

"No. And, as far as I know, no one else has, either."

"I wonder why?"

"They said it was to keep him safe. But I wonder. . ."

"Wonder what?" he asked when she didn't finish her question.

"I wonder if he even really exists."

Astir threw his head back and laughed. "Seriously?"

She frowned, looking a little put-out that he was laughing at her. "Well, how would you know if he does or doesn't when no one's seen him before?"

"I'm sure there are plenty of people here at the castle who have seen him."

"Maybe. Or maybe they just say they have because they're under orders to."

He looked at her, feeling a little concerned; he could see that she was serious. "That sounds like a conspiracy, Your Grace," he said with a hint of warning in his voice. "A conspiracy at the highest levels of government."

She shrugged a little, dismissing his warning. "It's what everyone says."

That shocked Prince Astir. "Oh, really?" he said, almost breathlessly.

"Yes."

That concerned him even more and he began to regret coming to the party unannounced. Now his absence would fuel the rumors that he didn't really exist and the kingdom was being run by a usurping oligarchy.

He was so perturbed, he forgot to pay attention to what he was doing. He accidently stepped on the hem of Justine's dress with his left foot. When she started to take the next step, her dress jerked under his weak foot and he became unbalanced. The next thing he knew, there was the sound of material ripping and he was falling sideways.

He had fallen so many times in his life, he stopped noticing the impact. In fact, he had learned to go limp when he fell, which reduced the chance of him injuring himself. So, when he ended up on the dance floor, he was a little startled, but unhurt.

The music stopped abruptly, as the court musicians noticed that their prince had fallen. People began to turn to see what had happened and a hush fell over the crowd.

Astir found himself looking up at Justine—and the tear in her dress where the skirt had pulled out of the seam where the bodice joined with it. It wasn't a large tear and one that was fairly simple to mend, but he felt bad that he had ruined her ball gown.

But before he could make his apologies and offer to have her dress repaired, laughter broke out around them and rippled through the crowd.

Astir was even more stunned than when he fell. No one had ever laughed at him before. There were always people around to help him get up again, but no one ever remarked on it, much less laughed. They put him back on his feet with no more emotion than if they had been straightening his wrinkled clothes or correcting a wrong answer on his lessons. It was just something that happened and something that was fixed.

But as people laughed at him, he felt his cheeks burn with shame for the first time. He knew that he was not like other people, and that some things were harder for him than others, but he had never been made to feel ashamed of his handicap.

Justine's face became red with embarrassment, too. "I . . . um . . . need to see to my dress," she mumbled lamely, then she turned and fled, leaving Astir still lying on the floor.

He had never felt more alone in his life.

But, regardless of how he felt, he knew he couldn't stay on the floor. So, before Addison or someone else could rush in to save him, he started to push himself up. And then there was a hand on his arm, helping him up.

He looked up and was surprised to see a young woman pulling him to his feet with a strength that seemed out of place in a pretty girl wearing a soft pink ball gown. The dark look on her face also seemed quite out of place.

"For shame!" she hissed at one man, who was doubled-over with laughter. "Shame on all of you!" she said, rounding on all the other guests who stood idly by and laughed.

Their laughter died away and they did have the grace to look ashamed of themselves.

The girl turned a cold shoulder towards them, then took Astir by the arm and forcibly escorted him to a settee on one side of the room.

Astir glanced up and noticed Addison standing nearby, looking at him worriedly. _Please restart the music,_ Astir told him. Addison nodded, then turned around and signaled the orchestra. They immediately began a new song and, after a few moments, everyone began to dance again.

The young woman helped Astir take a seat, then she stood by him, like a sentinel, blocking him from the view of any remaining curious stares. "Are you alright, my lord?" she asked him.

"Yes. Thank you."

"Are you sure?"

He waved away her concern. "Unfortunately, I'm accustomed to falling; it doesn't hurt me."

She looked down at his foot. "Has it always been that way?" she asked softly.

"Yes. I was born this way."

"I'm sorry."

He shrugged. "It doesn't matter to me; it's just the way I am. I suppose the gods have their reasons for making me this way."

He held out his hand to her. She looked a little surprised, then shyly put her hand in his. He leaned forward, kissing it. "May I know the name of my rescuer?" he asked.

She smiled a little. "Ysabel, my lord."

"That's a very pretty name," he said honestly. "A pretty name for a pretty face."

She blushed even more, her cheeks become as pink as the woolen gown that she wore. It was well-made and fitted her figure like a second skin, but even Astir could see that it was rather plain compared to the velvets and silks and satins that everyone else was wearing. She wore a single strand of white pearls around her neck, but no other jewelry. But, despite the fact that she wasn't richly dressed, her features more than made up for it. She was tall and slender, but her dress emphasized that she was also shapely. Her hair was a rich, chocolate brown that hung in thick curls to her waist. She had large, dark brown eyes and fair skin that was set off perfectly by the soft pink of her dress.

"You flatter me, my lord," Ysabel said, still looking a bit flustered by his praise.

"Do I? I would have thought a girl like you would be accustomed to hearing such things."

Her face slipped from pink to red. "Not from men like you, my lord."

He was momentarily surprised. Did she know who he was? "Like me?" he questioned.

"Yes, sir."

"Who am I?" he asked quietly.

"I don't know, my lord, but I can tell from your clothes that you must be one of the great lords," she said as her eyes took in his silk velvet doublet and matching slops, the dozens of silver ball buttons, and the silver embroidery patterning his pants and the edges of his doublet.

"Well, all I can say is if 'men like me' don't notice you and pay you compliments, then they must be blind. Luckily, that's not one of my handicaps."

She smiled, looking radiant. "It would seem that charm is one of your qualities, though."

"Is it? To be honest, this is the first time I've really had an opportunity to speak to a woman my own age, so I'm making this up as I go."

"Truly?"

He nodded.

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, this is my first party, too."

"Is it?"

She nodded. "My father is just a knight, so I don't get invited to balls like this," she said, glancing behind her at the people who were dancing or mingling around the edges.

Knights were an oddity in Hyrule, because—unlike in other kingdoms—knights could come from the common class. Knighthood wasn't a title that was passed down, but an honor earned by each individual. So, among the knights, there were men and women who had titles or would inherit them, those who were born noble but, because they were a younger son or daughter, would have no title of their own, and those who were not noble and never would be. Knighthood conferred a certain amount of status on anyone who had it—to the point that all knights were treated as if they were nobles—but the children of knights inherited no status.

Ysabel was obviously of the latter class—the daughter of a non-noble knight. While some of the wealthier knights might host parties and include the families of all the other knights, Ysabel would be left off most noblemen's guest lists.

"But His Highness, the Prince, invited all of his knights and their families, so I was able to come," Ysabel added. Then she looked back at Astir. "Wasn't that nice of him?"

"I'm sure he was happy to do so," he replied, mentally thanking Addison for being generous with the invitations.

"I wish he would hurry up and come, though," she said, looking around the room again. "I would like to see him."

"Do you think that he really exists?"

She looked back at him, her face shocked. "Of course he exists. Why would you even suggest that he doesn't?"

"Apparently there are people that don't think he really exists."

"That's nonsense," she said firmly. "My father is the Captain of the Guard and he would know if the prince was real or not."

How could he have never met the daughter of the Captain of the Guard before or even seen her around the castle?

"Your father is the Captain here, but you've never seen the prince?" he asked.

She shook her head reluctantly. "His advisors are very protective of him, Father says. They're afraid of something happening to him or someone bringing in plague or something like that. So they don't allow many people to have contact with him. But that doesn't mean that he doesn't exist," she added.

Astir gestured to the space beside him. "Would you care to stay and tell me more about the castle? I'm interested in hearing how it functions."

Ysabel sat down next to him and proceeded to tell him everything she knew about how the castle worked. Unlike the children of the rest of the castle servants, who went to a school on the castle grounds specifically for them, her father had sent her to the Academy. That, coupled with the fact that her family lived in a house in town and not in apartments at the castle, explained why Astir had never seen her before.

"I think my Father hoped that I would become a knight," she admitted. "He has four girls, but no boys. I'm the oldest and I've always been tall for my age and . . . well, he always said I had a lot of courage. So I think, maybe, he hoped I would follow in his footsteps. I tried sword training a couple of times, but I didn't like it. And I didn't like the idea of having to camp out and hunt and all of that stuff. So I just studied."

"What did you study?"

"History, mostly. That's my favorite subject." Her dark eyes were shining. "Father says there's an archivist here in the castle and his job is just to record the history of the kingdom and maintain the library."

"There is," Astir confirmed, momentarily forgetting that he wasn't supposed to be privy to the workings of the castle. But Ysabel didn't notice.

"I think that would be a wonderful job to have," she said eagerly, still enthralled by the idea of being a full-time historian. "I'll be finished with my studies in a year and I'm hoping my father might get an apprenticeship for me with the archivist. Or maybe even with the genealogist. That wouldn't be a bad job, either. But I'd rather be the archivist."

"What's your favorite time period?" he asked.

"The Dark Days."

That began an in-depth conversation of what they knew about Link and Zelda and their adventures. Before Astir knew it, they had been talking for over an hour.

 _Sire?_ Addison interrupted. _Are you planning on revealing yourself at all? People are beginning to ask and I think they're worried you're not coming at all_.

That brought Astir back to the present. He had completely forgotten about the rumors that he didn't exist; he had been too engrossed by his conversation with Ysabel to pay attention to anyone else.

And, to be honest, he wasn't interested in anyone else at this point; they could all go home for all he cared. _I'll get to it,_ he told Addison dismissively. Then he turned back to Ysabel. "I'm sorry, I've been remiss. Can I get you some refreshments? Something to drink, perhaps?"

She chuckled a little. "I could use something to drink," she said. "My throat is dry—probably because I've been talking too much. Father says I do that."

"Nonsense," Astir said. "When you have important things to say, there's no such thing as talking too much."

She laughed again. "Most people don't consider history to be something important."

"I'm not most people," he said, before excusing himself and going to one of the food tables. He came back a moment later with two glasses of white wine. He handed Ysabel one, then retook his seat. He watched her over his glass as she appreciatively sipped on her wine.

Suddenly he set his glass aside and took her hand. "Ysabel, would you marry me?"

She sputtered, dribbling wine on herself. She hastily put her glass down and tried to blot the wine off her chest with her free hand. A servant standing nearby saw her distress and hurriedly brought her a napkin.

"Thank you," she said, taking the napkin from him and dabbing the wet spots. Astir waited patiently for her answer.

She finally turned to look at him again. "I'm sorry. I misheard you and it startled me."

"You didn't mishear me. I asked you to marry me."

She continued to stare at him, her brown eyes wide. "I . . . don't know what to say," she stuttered.

"I'm hoping you'll say yes."

She laughed. "My lord, you just met me!"

"I'm a good judge of character."

"I don't even know your name."

"Does it matter?"

"Well, I think I ought to know the name of the man I'm marrying."

"Is that a 'yes?'" he asked eagerly.

"No, it's not." She looked at him, half-confused, half-curious. "You are a strange man."

"Is that a bad thing?"

". . . Not necessarily," she said carefully. "But just because I like you after spending a little time talking to you doesn't mean that we'd make a good marriage."

"But you _do_ like me?"

She laughed again. "Yes. You are a silly man—if you'll forgive me for saying so—but I do like you. But that doesn't mean I want to marry you," she hastily added.

"But does it mean that you'll never want to marry me?"

"I didn't say that."

"So you might say 'yes?'"

"Maybe. Some day."

"What if I could get you an apprenticeship with the Archivist?" he offered.

She looked at him cautiously. "Are you trying to bribe me?"

"That depends on if it will work or not," he said with a smile.

She studied him warily, then laughed. "You're just having me on!" she declared.

"Not at all."

"You're a tease," she insisted. "You don't really know anything about the castle or how it works," she said, reminding him of their earlier conversation when he was playing dumb.

"That doesn't mean I don't have connections. If you want the job, I can get it for you," he said seriously.

She looked at him warily. "But only if I agree to marry you?" she asked.

He shook his head. "No, I'll give you the job with no strings attached—just to prove myself to you."

"But if I were to say 'no' to you at a later date. . ?"

He spread his hands. "Then you will still have a job with the Archivist. I wouldn't do anything to take that away from you. It is a gift."

She continued to look at him as if sizing him up. "Are you really serious? Can you really get me a job with the Archivist?" she said, sounding tempted.

"You can start tomorrow."

"What about school?"

"You'll learn what you need on the job, I'm sure."

"And . . . you don't expect me to marry you in exchange for the position?" she asked again, still sounding hesitant, as if she kept expecting the offer to be too good to be true. But even though Astir had flippantly mentioned getting her the job she wanted, it quickly occurred to him that he really ought to do so, both because it was the nice thing to do for someone who had been so nice to him, and because it would allow him to see her every day. He was pretty convinced that she was the girl for him, but he could understand why she would be reluctant to commit herself so quickly; hopefully, if they could spend time together, he would be able to woo her.

"As I said, the job is a gift—no strings attached," he replied. "But I do hope it will prove to you that I'm serious."

"But I can still say 'no,' right?"

"Yes. I want you to say 'yes' because you want to say yes—not because you feel like you have to pay me back. If you were to marry me against your will . . . well, I don't think you'd be the woman I want after all. I want the girl who wasn't afraid to shame an entire group of her social betters—a girl who knows her mind and speaks it, no matter what."

Ysabel's face turned pink. "I . . . I wasn't thinking when I said that," she whispered, sounding embarrassed.

"You _were_ thinking," he contradicted. "You were thinking about what was right and wrong, not about meaningless things like rank. That's what's more important."

She looked down at her lap. "I must admit, you've given me a lot to think about."

He grinned. "Has this been a good first party?"

She looked up again. "Definitely." Then she laughed. "Who would have thought I would be proposed to at my very first ball?"

He picked up her hand and kissed it. "And by the prince, no less," he said with a grin.

She was still puzzling out what he said when he stood up and nodded to Addison. Addison signaled the orchestra and they stopped playing immediately. The dancers stumbled to a stop, looking around in confusion. But a moment later, a herald's voice boomed over the murmuring room. "Presenting his Royal Highness, Prince Astir, sole heir to the throne of Hyrule, on this, his eighteenth birthday and the day of his ascension to the throne of Hyrule. Do you now pay him homage!"

There was dead silence in the room as Astir walked purposefully towards the dais. People scrambled to make a walkway for him and hastily bowed or dipped curtseys. Behind him, though, was a trail of hushed whispers as everyone tried to confirm with their neighbor that he was the person who had fallen on the dance floor earlier and that he was really the prince.

Astir slowly climbed the stairs—stairs were hard for him, but he was careful not to fall again—and took a seat on the large golden throne at the center of the dais.

"It has come to my attention that some people think I do not exist—that my Council has been ruling on their own and hiding the fact that there is no heir. I wish to present myself before you all now so that you may know that I _do_ exist. And if anyone would like to publicly argue that I am not real, then please step forward so that I may give you my proofs."

No one so much as breathed. Astir could have heard a pin drop.

He waited for several long moments, letting the tension build as people who had believed the rumors began to sweat that their monarch would punish them for it. Then, he finally spoke. "Since there are no doubts as to my existence, then please let us continue the festivities." He turned to the orchestra and waved his hand. They struck up another song. It took a minute before the shock wore off and people began to dance again.

Astir looked back to the couch where he had left Ysabel, but it was empty. He glanced around and, out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a flash of pink as she hastily disappeared through a doorway.

It suddenly occurred to Astir that maybe Ysabel had not been amused that he had kept his identity hidden. Maybe Addison had been right that people wouldn't like feeling like they had been tricked.

He spent the rest of the evening looking for her return—intending to apologize to her—but she never returned.


	4. Job Offer

Ysabel was sound asleep when her younger sister burst into her bedroom early the next morning, startling her awake.

"Ysabel! A letter from Court! For you!"

Her sister thrust the envelope into her face, causing her to shrink back a little. It took a few moments before she could blink her bleary eyes into focus.

"What?" Ysabel asked, feeling slow.

"A letter from Court!" her sister said excitedly, shaking the letter under Ysabel's nose. "Did you meet someone last night Izzy? Someone important? Maybe it's an invitation to another party. Maybe you'll meet some nobleman who wants to marry you!"

That made Ysabel sit up straight in bed. The prince had proposed to her last night! Surely he hadn't been serious. But . . . what if he had? Surely he was terribly insulted by her refusal—and the fact that she ran away as soon as he revealed himself.

Maybe that's what the letter was about. Maybe it was a chastisement. If she was lucky. She didn't know what she would do if she had endangered her father's position.

With a cold, sick feeling in her belly, she took the letter from her sister. She tore open the wax seal on the back, impressed with the Royal Arms, and slowly unfolded the paper within, dreading what it might say.

 _Dear Ysabel,_

 _I wish to apologize for my behavior last night. My Lord High Chancellor warned me that I shouldn't go to the party in disguise—that people might feel tricked—but I didn't listen to him. I'm sorry if you felt deceived. I just wanted to see what people honestly thought of me. When you are a prince, there's no shortage of people who want to be your friend; when you're a nobody, however, you come by your friends honestly. I saw that last night. When I was nameless, you were the only person who came to my defense. Now, were I to fall, everyone would rush to help me and no one would laugh. Those people are false people. You, however, are genuine. I am glad to have met someone so genuine; I just wish that it had not required trickery on my part and I hope you will forgive me for it._

 _I talked to the Archivist this morning and he said he would be glad to have an apprentice. He's not very old, so you would not be looking at a promotion for a long time, but if you are still interested in the position, it is open to you whenever you would like. Just present yourself to the guard at the gate and tell them who you are and why you are there. Samis will be expecting you._

 _Kindest regards,_

 _Astir,_ Princeps

That wasn't at all what she had been expecting.

Her sister looked like she could barely contain herself. "What does it say, Izzy? Who is it from?" she demanded.

"It's from the prince," Ysabel said, still surprised.

"The prince!" her sister exclaimed. "Did you meet him last night?"

"Yes." She didn't elaborate as to the circumstances of their strange meeting.

"And . . . does he want to meet you again? Did you make a good impression?"

Ysabel actually laughed, a little bitterly. "I don't know about that. But he is offering me an apprenticeship with the Archivist. I told him last night that I really liked history and that I would like to work with the Archivist."

"Oh, Izzy, he must have liked you if he gave you a job just because you asked!" her sister said, looking rather enraptured.

Ysabel wondered if that was true. He certainly seemed taken with her last night, but that was before she had turned him down and ran out on him. But . . . if he was still offering her the job—and apologizing for not revealing himself to her earlier—then maybe he still liked her. Or maybe he was just honorable and wouldn't retract an offer that had already been made.

She wasn't sure what to think about him. He was handsome and well-educated and his love of history certainly went a long way towards endearing him to her. But his sudden proposal after just meeting her was odd. And the fact that she was common-born when he had an entire court full of eligible young noblewomen to choose from made the situation even stranger.

Surely he hadn't really been serious. He must just have a strange sense of humor.

"Izzy?" her sister said, looking at her worriedly when she didn't speak. "Are . . . are you not excited? Don't you want the job?"

Ysabel considered it for a moment, then nodded. "Yes, I want the job."

"Then what's wrong?"

Ysabel smiled a little. "Nothing. I'm just a little surprised is all."

* * *

An hour later, Ysabel presented herself to the guard at the castle gate. She had the prince's letter to show that she had been invited, but she hoped she didn't have to show it to anyone. She felt that the prince's apology to her was something that ought to remain private, if at all possible.

But she was in luck; one of the guards recognized her.

"You're Hadrian's girl, aren't you?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Here to see your dad?"

"No, actually, I'm here to see the Archivist." She consulted the letter, looking for the man's name. "Samis. I'm supposed to be his new apprentice."

"Oh, alright," the guard said cheerfully. He opened a small door set in the wall beside the large gates, which remained shut. "Go on in."

A little surprised, Ysabel went through the door—which the guard promptly closed after her. She wondered if someone had told the guards to expect her, or if they took her at her word because she was the daughter of their boss.

The other possibility was that now that the prince was no longer being kept from the outside world, coming and going from the castle might be less restricted in general.

Ysabel had been to the castle a few times over the course of her life, and while she knew the general layout, she didn't know where the library was—assuming that the Archivist was there. But she did know that she could find someone in the entrance hall who would know.

"Excuse me," she said to one of the guards standing just inside the door. "Can you tell me where to find the Archivist?"

"He's in the library, ma'am."

"And where is that?"

"Take the hall to the right," he said, pointing the way. "Follow it and it will make two left turns. You'll find the door to the library on your left. That's the only door on that wall, so you can't miss it."

"Thank you."

Ysabel walked silently across the plush woolen carpets, following the hallway as the guard instructed. It was quite a walk, as the hallway took her around the huge throne room where the party had been the night before. The library was obviously located behind it.

She found the library door without a problem, but hesitated. Should she knock? But she decided since it was a public room, knocking wasn't necessary, so she pulled open the door and walked in.

She was immediately overwhelmed by the scent of old books and she inhaled deeply, find the aroma rather heady. Other women might find flowers delightful, but Ysabel thought nothing smelled better than an old book. And the library was packed full of them. All along the back wall, there were bookcases set in rows three deep; books filled the shelves from floor to ceiling. Along the left-hand side, there was another row of cases, but these were divided into small cubbyholes, nearly all of which contained a roll of parchment. In the middle of the room was a long table—long enough to be a banquet table—with candelabras and scraps of parchment and ink and quills on it and chairs set all around. On half of the right-hand wall was a bank of three giant windows that nearly went from floor to ceiling. They looked out over a small flower garden that was completely enclosed by the other wings of the castle.

Ysabel was still looking around in wonder—the library was ten times the size of the one at the monastery—when a man who wasn't quite middle-aged came out of the stacks.

"May I help you?" he asked. His arms were full of books.

"I'm looking for Samis, the Archivist."

The man went to the table and dropped his stack of books on it. "You've found him."

"I'm Ysabel. Prince Astir. . ."

"Oh, yes," he said at once. "You're the one who's so interested in history."

"Yes, sir."

"Well, you've come at a good time." He patted the stack of books beside him. "Lord Fairway mentioned last night to His Highness that he wants to press a claim to the Barony of Sunrise Falls, since the previous baron died without issue a couple of weeks ago. I need to research the history of the barony—who it was given to and when and under what circumstances—then do a genealogical chart to see if there's anyone in the family who has a better claim. Or determine if the Lord is too far removed to have a proper claim, at which point the land will revert back to the Crown for His Highness to dispose of as he will. Which is what I think His Highness would prefer happen," he hinted.

"Isn't that a job for the genealogist?" Ysabel asked.

"Not really. He keeps up with the Royal Family, but not the rest of the nobles so much. Of course, they're marrying into or out of the family all the time, but you end up losing track of them sometimes for a few generations. Plus, we're looking at the history of ownership, which he doesn't track at all. But once we have a family tree reconstructed, he can help us determine which family lines have precedence—although I can figure that out most of the time by myself," he added. "He and I fill in for one another if we're sick or have to be away for any length of time. I'm not as good as him for complicated questions—like how many degrees removed two people are—and I don't know how to make his fancy family tree charts, but I can handle most questions."

They sat down at the table together and began looking through the books that Samis had selected. Samis filled Ysabel in on what he knew of the Barony and who the old baron had been, but, for the most part, they constructed a history of the barony and an ownership and genealogical chart from the tidbits they found in various books about the history of the kingdom and some of its noble families.

Ysabel lost all track of time as she skimmed through books—none of which had a table of contents or index—looking for references to the Barony of Sunrise Falls or the names of any of the people who had once owned it. She didn't even notice when the library door opened and someone walked in. It wasn't until Samis suddenly rose to his feet that she took her nose out of the book that she was reading.

Prince Astir was standing in front of the table, smiling at them—at her in particular.

She hastily put down the book and jumped to her feet, too.

"Are you so busy you can't stop for lunch?" Astir asked Samis.

"Is it lunchtime already, Your Highness? I hadn't been keeping up with the time."

Astir chuckled. "That doesn't surprise me in the least. Why don't you go to the kitchen to get us something to eat?"

"Do you want something as well, Your Highness?" Samis asked, sounding surprised.

"Yes, please. I will take my lunch here with you."

Samis hurried out, leaving Astir and Ysabel alone.

Astir sat down in the chair at the end of the table, nearest Ysabel, then gestured for her to sit as well. "I'm glad to see you took me up on the offer," he began.

She smiled a little, feeling nervous, and slowly sat down. She still wasn't sure if he was going to chastise her or not. "It would be silly of me to say I wanted the job, then not take it when you offered," she replied.

"I thought you might be too mad at me to take it."

She shook her head. "I'm not mad, Your Highness. It is I who must apologize to you for what I said last night."

"You said nothing which wasn't true."

"But . . . I said things that I shouldn't have said to you." Dear gods, had she really told him that he was silly? And she had called him strange!

He reached out and took her hand. "Ysabel, you don't understand. You spoke to me as if I'm a normal person. You spoke like . . . like a friend would. Friends can say things like that to one another. Friends can be honest. I don't have any friends, though. I grew up surrounded by people at court—people who do things for me just because I'm the prince. I don't know if they like me or not. I don't know if they're nice or just do something because I might reward them. People hide their real selves when they're around royalty. That's why I wanted to hide my identity last night; for just a little while, I wanted to be a regular person."

Ysabel felt her heart constrict. She didn't know what it was like to grow up so alone. She had three younger sisters who were all close in age, so she never lacked for playmates. And on their street, there were lots of girls and boys to play with, and later, when she went to school, she made even more friends.

Prince Astir had not only grown up an orphan—like many other children of their generation—but he had also grown up without the comfort of others who understood. He was prized above all else because he was their only heir to the throne, but he wasn't prized as an individual.

"I understand," she said quietly.

"Do you?" he asked, his eyes pleading.

She nodded.

He smiled—a warm smile that made her like him all the more—then he raised her hand to his lips, slowly kissing it. The way he did it made her blush.

"So, do you think you'll like the job?" he asked, releasing her hand with some reluctance.

"Oh, yes," she said eagerly.

"What are you working on?" he asked, eying all the books and their pile of notes.

"We're researching the Barony of Sunrise Falls."

"Oh, yes. Lord Fairway wants it. But I don't think he has a legitimate claim on it."

"What will you do if he doesn't?"

"I'll take it back. I have plans for it."

"What?" she asked, curious. It was only after she spoke that she realized she probably shouldn't question the prince's business like that. But if her impudence annoyed him, he certainly didn't show it.

"I thought I'd make it a wedding gift for my bride. I've been told it's the most beautiful place in the kingdom, so what better gift?"

Ysabel was at a complete loss for words. Who was this bride he spoke of? Had he just been teasing about wanting to marry her last night? Did he already have someone else in mind?

He leaned closer to her. "Remember that _you_ asked."

She was confused. "I asked?"

"Yes. You asked what I planned to do with it, and I was honest and told you. So don't accuse me of trying to bribe you again. I would have kept it a surprise if you hadn't asked." He gave her a teasing smile.

"A-are you talking about _me_?" she asked, flabbergasted. The idea that he would give her her own piece of land—a barony, no less—in addition to making her his queen seemed far too much. He had already given her the job she most wanted. Why did he keep offering to heap rewards on her that she had no right to expect?

"Of course I am," he laughed. "How many women do you think I proposed to last night?"

"I . . . thought you might be joking. Or . . . that you would be angry because I left."

"I would never joke with a woman about a marriage proposal," he said seriously. "That is beyond dishonorable and hurtful. And I'm certainly not angry because you walked out on me; I deserved it after what I did."

She shook her head. "I didn't leave because I was angry. I-I was ashamed of what I had said," she mumbled, looking at her hands in her lap. "And I was afraid you would be angry with me."

"It seems that we both assumed the wrong thing about the other person. Maybe we should make a fresh start." He stood up and took her hand in his, bowing over it and kissing it with a courtier's politeness. "If you will permit me to introduce myself, I am Prince Astir of Hyrule. And you are?"

She chuckled, then she rose to her feet and gave him a very proper curtsey. "I am honored to meet you, Your Highness. I am Ysabel, daughter of Hadrian, the captain of your guard."

"The pleasure is all mine my lady," he said, kissing her hand again—his lips lingering against her skin longer than was strictly necessary.

Samis walked in a moment later, a servant carrying food trailing behind him. He stopped and looked at the two of them with surprise. "I'm sorry, Your Highness, Ysabel; I didn't think to introduce you."

Astir laughed. "Quite alright. I think we're properly introduced now." He glanced at her, his blue eyes twinkling. She smiled at him in return.


	5. Father's Advice

The prince came to the library every day around lunchtime. Samis would leave to procure lunch, giving Astir and Ysabel time to talk.

Astir always wanted to know what they were working on and Ysabel was happy to share everything she was learning with him. She had quickly discovered that being an Archivist was not about sitting around and reading every book in the library and waiting for something worth writing about to happen. She had to learn bookbinding and had to practice her penmanship every day under Samis' careful eye so that she could repair damaged books or fading text.

And it wasn't just books that she had to deal with. Every time the prince held court, cases and pleas were recorded on parchment rolls and then handed off to the Archivist. Their contents had to be recorded in a huge catalog of cases—complete with numerous cross references—and then the parchment had to be numbered sequentially and stored in case the prince or some student of the law ever had need to review it. There was a great storage room under their feet—a spiral staircase in one corner of the library led to it—and it was filled with shelves that contained boxes stuffed full of case rolls. But, even as things went down to storage, the oldest boxes were constantly being brought up for review. If Samis thought something looked important, it was marked for saving. If it was in need of retouching, he usually did it himself, but if it needed to be completely rewritten, he usually sent it to a court scribe for copying. If the roll didn't look important, he would send it to the court law clerks for their review. If they too found it unnecessary, the parchment was either sent out to have its words scraped off and the skin reconditioned, or if it was past the point of saving, it was destroyed completely.

There was a surprising amount to learn; the Archivist had to be a librarian, kingdom historian, genealogist, scribe, and law clerk all rolled into one.

But Ysabel loved it. They were always running across some tidbit of interesting history or ancient scandal or outrageous court case. And she always shared every detail with Prince Astir, who seemed to find it just as interesting.

In fact, Ysabel was so enamored of the job, and so eager to share it with a kindred soul, it took her a few weeks before she really stopped to think about what was happening. Samis was considered a second-tier employee at the castle; he outranked the servants who did manual labor, like the cooks and washerwomen and stablehands. Only the advisors and some more important second-tier employees outranked him.

That the king would ask someone like him to fetch lunch was unusual; such a task was normally below someone of Samis' stature. At the most, Samis should have only had to ring for a servant or step outside the room to flag someone down, then send him or her off to the kitchen with orders to bring back lunch.

But, instead, Samis left every day at lunch and presumably went all the way to the kitchen to order lunch, waited there, then brought it back.

It was completely unnecessary . . . unless the entire point was for him to leave the room for a little while and give Ysabel and the prince some time alone. She wondered if Samis had decided to do that himself, or if the prince had arranged it with him aforetime.

And she noticed that lunch was taking longer and longer to get to them, and before long, she and the prince were slipping out of the library to tour the gardens or stroll down the portrait gallery—which had many fine pictures of Link and Zelda. One day, Astir took her to the chapel and showed her all of Link and Zelda's weapons. Even as the daughter of the Captain of the Guard, she had never expected to be allowed to see the weapons. But Astir had shocked her even more when he opened the cases and allowed her to hold each piece. She had been so excited, she could hardly breathe, and when they finally came back to the library—well over an hour later—she was as flushed and breathless as if she had been running.

But Samis never said a word about it—or even acted like they had been gone for ages.

In the evenings, there was always a castle guard waiting at the gate to escort Ysabel home—under orders from the prince, she later discovered. Her father worked long hours and was often gone before she even woke up and didn't come home until dinnertime—or later. So Ysabel normally walked to work alone in the mornings; she didn't understand why she needed an escort home in the evenings. It wasn't even dark—not that it was dangerous in the city, anyway.

When she asked the prince why he insisted someone walk her home when no one walked her to work, he replied, "Do you need someone to walk you here in the mornings?"

"No. That's just it: I don't think I need an escort at all. I know the way; I get myself here every morning," she added with a laugh.

"When you're in your father's house, it's his responsibility to get you safely to wherever you may go. When you leave my house, it's my responsibility. So you get an escort."

"Are you implying that my father isn't doing his duty by letting me walk alone?"

"Not at all. I'm sure he knows best. But if I am careful of my treasures, how much more careful should I be if I have the keeping of someone else's treasure? If I lose my treasure through my own negligence, I have only myself to blame. But if I lose your father's treasure . . . well, let's say I don't want to know what he might do to me. I'm sure he can hurt me."

That made Ysabel laugh, but later that night, when she was lying in bed, she thought about it more carefully. She wasn't sure if Astir was just full of noble ideals, or if he was really afraid that something might happen to her. She couldn't decide, because he seemed to be a mix of both. He loved to read the old romantic tales and even though he wasn't a knight, he was in love with the ideals of knightly virtue. But at the same time, he had been raised in a state of heightened paranoia all his life. For him, worrying about something happening must be second nature.

One evening, Ysabel was surprised to find the guard waiting to take her home was her father.

"Are you going home early?" she asked.

"Yes."

They fell into step as they walked home, neither one speaking. Hadrian had always been a taciturn man and didn't spend much time talking to anyone—even his own family. He wasn't naturally affectionate, either, and his three girls had grown up early, having to take care of themselves and each other while he worked. But Ysabel knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that her father loved all of them. They had a large, comfortable house—each girl had her own bedroom—and nice clothes, and they always had shoes; they never wanted for food and never went cold in winter. Their father was absent a lot—physically and emotionally—but he always provided for them. Most children growing up as orphans had not had one-tenth the things that Ysabel and her sisters had; they were rich compared to most. And many orphaned children had been put to work as soon as possible—at age ten or so—because there was such a need for laborers and craftsmen. But Ysabel's father had sent his girls to the Academy—the best school there was in the kingdom—and let them get an education without having to worry about working and earning a living.

That Ysabel was working now was because she had chosen to, not because her father or circumstances compelled her to. And her father even allowed her to keep all of her earnings, even though she was now, legally, considered an adult and she rightly owed him a portion of her wages to pay for her keep. Ysabel knew that taking care of another person said "I love you" just as much—or more—than words. And she always tried to say the same thing to him by making his dinner every night, keeping the house clean, and helping raise her sisters.

"Ysabel, I want to talk to you about something," her father said after a few minutes.

"Yes, sir?"

He glanced around, then led her into a deserted alley. His voice dropped to a whisper. "What is the nature of your relationship with Prince Astir? People around the castle are beginning to talk . . ."

"What are they saying?" she asked curiously.

"Some say that you two are in love, or that he is in love with you but you do not reciprocate, or even that you are or will become his mistress until he can find a queen." He frowned, which looked odd—and a little scary; he hardly showed emotion one way or the other. "I don't like to hear such things about you."

"I don't like to hear such things either, as they're lies," Ysabel said firmly. I would never consent to be any man's mistress."

"Good. I thought that much wasn't true, but . . . the prince is not a Knight of Hyrule, and while I would like to think well of him, he is not under the same obligations that we are."

"I think he is as honorable as any Knight," Ysabel declared. "His foot may not allow him to be one, but that doesn't mean that he doesn't believe in those same ideals—and want to uphold them."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"As to the rest . . ." She shrugged her shoulders. "I'm not sure."

"You're not sure of his intentions towards you?"

"Oh, I'm pretty sure of those. He's already asked me to marry him."

Her father reeled, looking utterly shocked. "W-what?"

"When I went to that ball for his birthday, I met him there—although I didn't know who he was at the time—and he proposed marriage to me. I later thought that he must have been joking or playing a cruel trick, but now that I've spent some more time with him, I think he's in earnest. He's hinted that his offer is still on the table, any time I choose to accept. I think he's spending time with me in order to woo me."

Her father was so shocked, he was speechless for a few moments. "Why . . . why would he show such interest in you when he has the pick of the ladies of court?"

"I don't know; I've asked myself the same thing. But . . . I was kind to him at the party when others were not. And I think he's taken a liking to me because of that. But, we do have a lot in common," she added. "He is a student of history, too, and we spend a lot of time talking about that and other subjects, too."

"I can see why that would be attractive to you," her father admitted. "You always have been an intellectual child—your head full of thoughts."

"He's the same way."

He looked at her. "If I had not asked about this, would you have ever told me?"

"There's not much to tell," she said. "He's courting me, but I'm not sure if I want to be courted."

"Do I have to speak to him?" he asked, bristling a little.

"I didn't mean that he's bothering me," she hurried to explain. "I just mean . . . I'm not in love with the idea of being a queen. If he was someone else—anyone else—I think I would have already agreed to marry him. But I'm not a noblewoman and we're not a noble family. I've seen just enough of court to think I wouldn't feel comfortable being there all the time—especially being in charge of it."

Her father smiled slightly. "Any other girl would want him specifically because he's the prince."

"I'm not like other girls."

"Certainly not. You have more sense than many twice your age."

They continued their walk towards home. After a few minutes, Ysabel spoke again. "What do you think I should do, Father?"

He frowned again and stroked his beard. "I'm not sure," he admitted.

"He has all but said he would give me a barony as dower. You could retire there—you and the girls—and just manage it for me and not have to work so hard. I'm sure Lacey and Kedra would be thrilled to have parties and entertain. Knowing the prince, he'd give you all titles so you could be noble; I'd probably not even have to ask."

"I am not an old man just yet," Hadrian said, bristling a bit again. "I can still provide for myself and my family; I need not sell my daughter to the highest bidder."

"I didn't mean it that way, Father. I just meant. . ." She stopped to look at him. "I would like to give you something after you have given me so much."

His eyes softened and he rewarded her with a rare smile. "Ysabel, you do not owe me anything. I chose to be your father—with all the responsibility and sacrifice that entails. You, on the other hand, did not choose to be my daughter, so it seems unfair to burden you with an unasked for debt."

She looked at him for a moment, then took his hand. "I would like to think that, when my soul was in the Other World, I saw you and Mother living here and I chose to be your daughter."

His smile broadened. If Ysabel wasn't mistaken, there were actually tears in his eyes. At any rate, he seemed too emotional to speak, so he just squeezed her hand tightly.

They were almost to the house before he finally spoke again. "Ysabel, you are a smart girl—smarter, even, than me. I'm sure whatever you decide, it will be the right decision for you, and I will stand by you either way. It's not a decision to be made lightly, though, so I only ask that you take your time."

"Believe me, Father, I know. That it is so heavy a decision is why I haven't already decided. But I don't think I can wait indefinitely, either. Prince Astir's patience is surely not limitless and there are plenty of other girls who will no doubt try to catch his eye. My decision may get made for me."

"Sometimes we decide things by making no decision at all," Hardian said wisely.


	6. Party Plans

Addison had never married—he had never had time to court a girl—not that there were many his age available even if he had—but it didn't take an experienced eye to notice that Prince Astir was desperately in love with the girl working as the Archivist's assistant. And it didn't take a genius to realize that she was not nearly as interested in him as he was in her. But love apparently took away all commonsense, because even though the prince was reckoned to be quite intelligent, he apparently was unable to see that Ysabel's response to him didn't go beyond friendship.

Addison wasn't sure what to do about the problem, though. He didn't want to be the one to crush his young ward's dreams and ruin his first love, but at the same time, Astir couldn't spend forever mooning over the girl. The kingdom was slowly but surely rebuilding itself from its devastating population loss, and the prince had to do his part, too. He had to marry and have children.

He had only had one party and he had spent almost all of it with Ysabel or sitting on his throne, alone. Perhaps it was time to have another party. Maybe seeing other girls—girls who were very interested in him—would make him change his mind about Ysabel. There were plenty of fish in the sea, as the saying went; there was no need for him to have his heart set so quickly and firmly on one he couldn't seem to reel in.

* * *

Addison hung back while the rest of the Council was exiting from their morning meeting. Prince Astir was still in his chair, signing some of the documents and petitions that they had given him.

"Yes?" Astir asked, looking up when Addison didn't make a move to leave.

"Sire, I was wondering if you might like to have another party."

"So soon? It's only been a couple of months since my birthday. People don't have parties that often . . . do they?"

Addison shrugged a little. "You can have them as often as you want . . . provided you don't break the treasury in the process."

"Why not mention this during the meeting?"

Addison began to wish that his prince was oblivious all the time, not just when Ysabel was concerned.

He sighed. "Sire, I think . . . I think it would be a good idea for you to socialize with the young ladies of the kingdom more."

"Oh, is that what this is about?" Astir returned to signing the documents. "I already have my eye on someone, so that's not necessary."

"I know, Sire."

Astir looked up at him again. "Then why do you want me to have another party?"

Addison bowed his head, unable to meet his prince's innocent eyes. "Because . . . maybe that young lady is not going to work out. So I thought you might consider other options."

"What makes you think that Ysabel won't work out?" Astir suddenly threw his quill to the table. "Does this have to do with the fact that she's not noble?" he accused.

"Not at all, Sire. You are free to marry whomever you want."

"Then what are you getting at? Speak plainly!"

"I fear that . . . that the young lady may not feel for you what you feel for her," Addison said as gently as he could.

"I am aware of that."

Addison looked up at him in surprise. "What?"

Astir crossed his arms. "I'd have to be very dense to not notice that she is not as enthusiastic about me as I am her. After all, I proposed and she has still not accepted."

Addison was even more surprised. "You proposed, Sire? Have you told anyone?"

"No. I was under the impression that my business was still my own," he hinted.

"Well . . . yes, but proposing marriage is a big deal. It becomes everyone's business."

"Only if she accepts. Until then, it's between me and her."

Addison drummed his fingers nervously on the table. He had thought he knew everything that was going on with Astir—he had always been an open, forthright boy—but it seemed the prince had taken to having private plans—even private marriage proposals! He was, of course, allowed to do so, but it left Addison wondering what was happening. He was unaccustomed to not being in control of everything.

"And if she doesn't accept?" Addison asked quietly.

"I think she will. I believe that she's my destiny. I am convinced of it," he added firmly. "I just have to give her time to find that out for herself."

Many generations before, people had commissioned astrologers to chart their destiny in life, but it had gradually become less and less fashionable to do so. Then, when the plague came, it wiped out the few remaining astrologers; now no one could get their destiny charted.

Addison wished that Astir's parents had gotten a star chart made for him before the opportunity had been lost. It would make this decision much easier if they knew who he was supposed to marry.

"What if she doesn't come to the same conclusion as you?" Addison asked.

"Gods, Addison, I thought _I_ was in a hurry to get married!" Astir laughed with disbelief. "I just turned eighteen two months ago and have already proposed, but that's not fast enough for you? What, are you anxious for me to move out of the house?" he asked with a sly grin.

"No, my prince. I didn't mean that. I just . . . I just thought you shouldn't pin your hopes too firmly on one girl just yet—especially one that's undecided."

"Well, you're too late; my hopes are already pinned to her. And I think she has a right to be undecided; I've only been courting her for a couple of months."

He picked up his quill and began reviewing documents again. But after a minute, when Addison didn't move, he looked up again. "More?" he asked.

"No, sire," Addison said reluctantly.

Astir laughed at him. "I don't think a girl could look more disappointed if her coming out party was cancelled. Do you want this party that much?"

"I don't want it for myself, Sire."

"Yes, yes, I know, it's all about seeing me married," Astir said, waving his hand dismissively. "Very well, I will humor you . . . if you humor me and invite Ysabel."

"Very good, Sire."

"See to it, then," Astir said, before returning to his papers.

Addison rose, bowed his head, then left. It wasn't what he hoped for, but maybe something would come of it yet. At the very least, they weren't likely to be any worse off than they were before.

Addison supposed that Astir was right: there wasn't any great hurry for him to marry. He had only just come of age and there was no reason to expect that another plague would come through before he could get an heir. But Addison couldn't shake the feeling that he needed to hurry and see his prince crowned and with an heir in the cradle. He hoped that he wasn't getting a foretelling of some ill befalling Astir.

Perhaps it was just because he had lived his entire adult life paranoid that something would happen to Astir on his watch. Now the prince was old enough to take care of himself, but maybe the older man was having a hard time letting go of the worry.

That's what he told himself, anyway. That still didn't feel right, though. For the second time that morning, he wished there were still astrologers available. If something untoward was going to happen to Astir, it would surely appear in his star chart. If they knew what was coming, they could make proper arrangements. But, instead, they were groping blindly in the dark. Addison could only hope that they would all take the right course of action.


	7. Duty

Before the month was out, Astir found himself attending another ball. This time, however, he came in wearing his coronet and the heralds announced him with all due pomp and circumstance.

As soon as the announcement was finished, he wandered towards a table, intent on seeking out a drink. A servant hurried to hand him a glass of red wine, but it was no more in his hand than he was surrounded by people who were all too eager to talk to him and gush over the lovely party.

How different from the group he had been with at the first party who could do nothing but complain about his absence!

He quickly recognized one of the women in the gaggle of sycophants. "Cousin," he said with a nod of his head to Duchess Justine. She beamed, obviously pleased that he recognized her and acknowledged their family bond.

"Good evening, Your Highness," she said, dipping a very low curtsey. She seemed to be aware of the fact that her dress was rather low-cut and she bent forward to show that off to great effect. He considered asking her how long she had to practice bowing to show off her bosom like that without spilling out of her bodice, but he decided that wouldn't be very chivalrous. But he couldn't resist needling her a little bit after she left him on the floor the last time.

"That's a new dress," he remarked.

She smiled, looking even more pleased that he was giving her his attention. "Yes, Your Highness."

"I'm sorry I ripped your previous one."

She waved his concern away with a gloved hand. "Oh, that was easily repaired, Your Highness. It wasn't but a little tear in the seam. You could hardly see it."

"Well it certainly seemed like a grave concern to you at the time, as you left me to attend to it immediately. Left me on the floor, as I recall."

She flushed a little. "My apologies, Highness. I didn't know who you were at the time."

"So, if you had known it was me, you would have stayed to see that I was alright?"

"Certainly, sire."

"But when I meant nothing to you, I was not worth your effort?"

She grew quite red in the face and gaped, speechless. The others in the group stared at her, waiting to see how she could climb out of the hole she had just dug for herself.

"I . . . didn't mean that, Your Highness. It's just that—"

"Spare me," Astir said, cutting her off. He really didn't want to listen while she twisted herself into a pretzel trying to explain away her gaffe. If she had been any part honorable, she would have just owned up to what she did and apologize immediately.

Besides, he had just seen a pink figure enter the room and walk towards the crowd surrounding the dance floor.

He knocked back his glass of wine, then shoved the glass in the nearest available hand. "If you'll excuse me . . ." Then, before anyone could say anything or even bow, he was limping across the floor towards Ysabel.

He noticed that she was wearing the same dress and string of pearls that she had worn before. No doubt it was the only party dress she owned; she couldn't afford to wear something new to every party during the year. He immediately thought that he should have a new dress or two made for her, but then he stopped himself. Even if her pride would allow her to accept them—which it probably wouldn't—he wasn't sure if he wanted to see her in a new gown every day like the other glittering jays at court. He kind of liked the fact that she was more sensible and constant.

"Good evening," he said with a bow.

Ysabel—who had been looking the other way—startled and turned to him. She gave him a deep curtsey. She kept her back straight and did not lean over so that he could look down the top of her dress.

"Highness," she said properly.

"You know, I was thinking, I never got to dance with you before," he said. "And that made me sad. So I thought we could remedy that this go around. If you will permit me . . ?" he asked, holding out a hopeful hand.

She smiled—almost shyly—and put her gloved hand in his. "Of course. I wouldn't want you to be sad," she said, almost teasing.

"That would be a great tragedy, to be sure," he joked back.

He wished he could whisk her to the dance floor and whirl her from one end to the other, making her breathless. Instead, he had to settle for limping to the dance floor and dancing a rather sedate waltz. But he made himself feel a little better by holding her so close, their bodies almost touched.

He was very careful to pay attention to what he was doing so he didn't have a repeat of the last incident. He liked having his arm around her, her other hand lightly resting in his, but by the time the song finished, he was done with dancing. He preferred talking to her, and he couldn't do both at the same time.

"Will you step out with me?" he asked as everyone politely applauded the orchestra.

Her eyes went a little wider. "Where to?"

"I think I can find a place," he said with an enigmatic smile. He offered his hand and she took it, letting him lead her out of the hall.

That was something he liked about her: she went along with whatever he wanted to do and went wherever he wanted to go. He had the feeling she didn't do that because he was her prince but because she trusted him.

He took her through the well-lit hallways and then down the back corridors that were dimly lit. He finally opened a side door and went out into a small courtyard that had been almost completely surrounded by the castle as it had been added onto over the years.

The edge of the garden, next to the stone walls, was full of flowers. In the daytime, they were a riot of color, but at night they seemed all the more fragrant. In a few places, moon flower vines overspilled their beds and tried to creep across the brick pathway, their huge white blooms open to the night.

Astir took Ysabel to a small stone bench at the center of the garden and sat down.

"This is pretty," she said, looking around at the pale stone walls glowing softly under the light of a nearly-full moon and the beds full of dark and light flowers. "It smells so sweet."

"It does. This is the best garden to be in for summer. I especially like how small it is. It's . . . cozy. You feel hidden away. I used to steal away here for hours when I was younger. I felt like I was really doing something secret and sneaky." He laughed at himself. "I'm sure Addison always knew where I was, though. But he always fussed when I returned and said everyone had been looking for me, so I felt that I had gotten away with something.

"You know, for someone who never had any friends or playmates growing up, I spent a lot of time around other people. It was nice to come out here sometimes and lie on the bench and read a book and just be alone and quiet."

"I used to do that at the Academy," Ysabel said. "Sometimes—especially in the spring—I just couldn't stand to be inside anymore and I'd take a book and go up into the bell tower and spend my afternoon reading and taking the air."

"Didn't you get in trouble skipping class?"

"Yes, they made me do lines when I came back. But some days, when the weather was perfect, it was worth it."

"You know, I don't think either of us has a proper respect for authority."

She laughed. "I wouldn't say that. But . . . maybe we need to be free to be alone every once in a while."

"You know, when I had my birthday party, I was so excited about it. I came into the hall and . . . it was just so _exciting_ to see so many new people—and all of them my own age.

"But I've found I really prefer to just spend time with you, talking like this. When Addison proposed having another party, I really couldn't care less if we had one or not; I much prefer having lunch with you every day." He laughed. "I swear I can't remember why I was so excited to have a party in the first place."

"Why did Lord Addison want a party?" Ysabel asked, looking confused.

"He wants me to meet more people."

She laughed. "Well, you won't do it out here."

"No. And I like it that way."

"Do you not want to be social?"

"I just prefer your company to that of others'. Is that bad?"

"No. In fact, it's rather flattering."

He looked down. "Ysabel . . . are we friends?"

"Yes, of course," she said confidently. Then she hesitated. "Aren't we?"

"I thought we were, yes."

"But?"

He looked up again. "But nothing. I just wanted to make sure."

She smiled. "Yes, I consider you a friend."

"Is that all you want me to be?"

She looked confused. "What do you mean?"

He looked down at his hands, which he twisted anxiously. "You know how I feel about you. Every day I wake up excited to see you—expect for the days when you don't work, of course. I don't like those days. I feel lonely and out of sorts on those days. But the other days—I so look forward to seeing you at lunch."

He continued to wring his hands, not daring to look up at her. "But I don't want to be a pest. If you only want to be friends—and nothing more—I can accept that. I would rather have your friendship than nothing at all.

"I guess what I'm asking," he said slowly, "is if you had made a decision about my proposal? I mean, if you want more time to think about it, that's alright. Or if you want to just be friends . . . that will be alright, too. I just want to know what to do, because I don't want you to feel like I'm being pushy."

He smiled a little, ruefully. "He says as he demands an answer."

It was Ysabel's turn to not make eye contact. "I . . . don't know, to be honest," she confessed. "My father was asking a few weeks ago what was going on between us because he was hearing rumors around the castle."

"Oh?" Astir asked. He wondered if Addison had heard those same rumors—which led to him deciding that Astir needed another party.

Ysabel nodded. "Father and I talked about it—more than we usually talk about anything."

"And . . ?" Astir asked, feeling equal parts anxious and hopeful.

"He said the decision was mine and he trusted me to do the right thing."

Astir felt himself breathe a tiny bit easier; at least Ysabel's father didn't object. "But you haven't made a decision yet?" he asked.

She looked up at him, her eyes appearing black in the moonlight. "Astir . . . do you want me to be honest?"

She had never called him by his name before, without title. He didn't think that sounded good.

He took a deep breath, trying to brace himself for the pain that was going to be coming. "Yes," he said, sounding more confident than he felt.

"If you weren't a king, I would say 'yes.'"

"But . . . you don't want me because of that?" he asked, completely surprised. He could have understood if she had said she didn't want him because he wasn't a knight, or because of his lame foot, or because she thought of him as a friend and nothing more—or a hundred other reasons. He never thought that she might not like him because he was the ruler of Hyrule. He had always been under the impression that was a considered a selling feature, not a flaw.

"I . . . don't know," she said hesitantly. "I really do like you. And we get on so well and like all the same things. And you're very honorable, and I like that. I think it would be easy to love you.

"But, as I was saying to Father, I'm not a noble woman and we're not a noble family. I don't think I would like being a queen." She waved towards the castle. "I don't think I would like being part of a court—always on display. Always being talked about. All I ever wanted was to work in a library, in the quiet, by myself, or maybe with one or two other people. I'm not cut out to be a public figure."

Astir felt tears welling up in his eyes. This wasn't at all what he expected. He had always expected that, even if Ysabel felt she only wanted to be friends right now, one day she would come to the realization that friendship was the very best basis for a marriage.

But this was completely different. There was no way things could ever change; he would never not be the king.

He had no hope.

He took her hand in his. "Ysabel, I have never wanted to be king less than I do right now."

She looked away, but not before he saw tears sparkling on her cheeks.

He squeezed her hand. "But I can't give up my throne." He put his other hand against her cheek and turned her face back to him. "If there was only you to consider, I would give it up in a heartbeat and never look back," he swore. "But too many people have risked too much—given up too much of themselves—to get me to this day. And I would be betraying every one of them if I walked away."

"I know," she whispered. "I would never presume to ask you to give up your throne for me. I just wanted you to know—"

He cut her off with a kiss.

She felt so soft and warm and tasted just a little sweet. And it made a desire burn in him stronger than anything he had ever felt before. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her to him so tightly, he knew that he must be squeezing the breath from her. But he couldn't stop; he wanted to melt into her.

He _knew_ she was his destiny. Without a doubt, they were meant to be together. But something must have happened to interrupt the gods' plans. Maybe the plague wasn't supposed to have come. Maybe he should have had a brother—a brother who was sound of body and capable of being a knight—and maybe the throne should have gone to him and Astir would have been free to marry Ysabel.

All he knew was that something was very right as he kissed her and something was terribly, terribly wrong in that he would never do it again.

At last he broke away. She looked shocked and breathless and as she stared at him, she could find nothing to say.

But then, neither could he.

He rose and limped across the garden. He hoped that she would call out to him—call him back. If she did . . . he didn't know what would happen. He would run back to her, for certain. But gods only knew what he would throw away in the process.

And he didn't care. If she called to him at that moment, he would have thrown everything and everyone away, honor and responsibility and debts be damned.

But she never made a sound.

He disappeared into the castle and mindlessly moved through the hallways, not paying any attention to where he was going. And then he turned a corner and nearly ran into Addison.

"Oh, there you are, Highness," Addison said, once he recovered from his surprise. "Where have you been? Everyone's asking for you. You should really spend more time with your guests."

"I don't care," Astir said, pushing past him, heading for the stairs. He had no desire to go back to the party—which he hadn't wanted in the first place. He just wanted to go to his room and be alone.

"Highness!" Addison gasped, scandalized. "You simply must—"

Astir rounded on him. "Don't tell me what I must!" he said, practically shouting. Even the guards in the hallway were so surprised, they broke protocol and turned to look at him.

"I know what I must do! I know all too well. And I've sacrificed as much tonight as I possibly can. So, if you'll excuse me, my duty's all used up for the evening."

He turned on his heel and stomped to the stairs, leaving Addison staring after him, open-mouthed.


	8. Ysabel's Loneliness

Once again, Ysabel found herself waking up the day after a party and feeling terrible. Before, she had been ashamed of what she had said to Astir, not knowing that he was the prince. But now she felt bad for what she hadn't said. She knew now, beyond a doubt, that he really did love her. But her own feelings were confused. She thought that she just liked him as a friend, but her heart hurt when she thought about him hurting and she wished she could make things better. But she didn't know how.

When it came time to return to work, she went with a heavy heart and dragging feet. But burying herself in the book stacks and occupying her mind with a research project was a good distraction and her anxiety lessened.

. . . Right up to the point that Samis looked up from his book and said, "Gracious! I think we've missed lunch. I wonder where His Highness is today?" He laughed. "Without him to keep us on schedule, I think we might work until past dinner."

Ysabel felt her heart sink to her feet and her anxiety returned. Samis was right: it was past time for Astir to be there. Was he showing his displeasure—and hurt—by absenting himself? Perhaps he was of the opinion that if he couldn't have Ysabel as a wife, then he wanted nothing to do with her at all.

But she could hardly blame him for not wanting to continue to be friends with her when just being around her reminded him of what he wanted but could never have.

Samis summoned a servant and had lunch delivered. Ysabel was silent, worried the entire time that he might ask her what she had done to drive the prince away, but he didn't seem to be bothered by Astir's absence and he told her some of the stories he had come across during his tenure there. He seemed to be glad to hear his own voice after spending so many hours silent, so Ysabel let him run on, occasionally nodding to show that she was still listening.

Ysabel's mind stayed on Astir the rest of the day and all the following morning. She didn't fail to notice when lunchtime rolled around—and passed—but Astir still failed to appear.

"I must admit, I miss His Highness," Samis told Ysabel; "he's such a cheerful young man, he really brightens our lunches, doesn't he?"

Ysabel nodded a little, fear clamping down on her innards; she just knew Samis was about to accuse her of driving him off.

"But," he said, turning back to his plate, "we can't expect to see him every day. Duty calls." He started to cut up his chunk of beef roast. "I wouldn't be surprised if Lord Addison has said something to him—told him to focus more and play less. He's a good man and I think he's done very well by our prince, but I think sometime he's a little too hard on him. He has always expected him to act like a grown man. He doesn't let him have enough time to play or have amusements, like other boys and young men have. And gods know he never had any playmates. Even now he has no companions, except you."

Ysabel nearly choked on her food. She felt so guilty, she very nearly confessed everything to Samis, but he continued to talk and the moment passed. But still, she was so upset the rest of the day, she barely accomplished any work.

That night, she slept poorly, so she came into work the following day feeling even worse. Even Samis finally noticed.

"Ysabel, are you alright?" he asked around mid-morning.

"What?" she asked, startling out of her thoughts.

"Are you alright? You've been staring into space for a long time."

"I'm sorry," she said, pushing herself up straighter in her chair, trying to wake herself up and focus her mind on her job.

"If you're not feeling well, you can go home," Samis offered. "I can handle this by myself, if need be."

"No, I'm fine," she said absent-mindedly. "I just didn't sleep very well last night."

"Oh," he said knowingly. "I have nights like that. I understand."

Ysabel hoped against hope that Astir would show up for lunch, but she and Samis ate alone again.

"Gosh, I hope nothing serious is going on," Samis remarked. "I wouldn't have expected His Highness to stay away for three days running. And not even a note of any kind."

Ysabel suddenly stood up; she had barely touched her lunch. "Do you mind if I step out and get some air? I really need to wake up."

Samis looked little startled. "Well . . . certainly. Of course. Are you sure you don't want to go home? At least get a little nap and come back this afternoon?"

"No, I'll be fine if I just get up and walk around a little."

"I understand that. I sit too long here myself."

Ysabel hurried out before Samis could continue the conversation. He was a dear man and she really liked him, but he spent so much of his time alone, when he had a moment to talk, he talked her ears off. He hadn't been like that so much when Astir had been visiting, though; he had allowed Ysabel and Astir to make their own conversation.

Maybe he felt a need to fill the void left by Astir so that Ysabel didn't feel lonely and abandoned. Little did he know that it was Ysabel who had left Astir feeling that way—even though it hadn't been intentional on her part.

And that did weigh heavily on her. But, truth be told, she had been up most of the previous night because she was consumed with loneliness, not guilt. She hadn't realized, until he was gone, how much she had come to appreciate—even depend—on Astir's company. No one else in her family had her love of history. Her father shared her introverted personality, but he was a man of so few words, it made conversations rather one-sided most of the time. Her sisters, on the other hand, were friendly and chatty, but they flited from one meaningless thought to another and they had no desire to discuss a subject in depth, as she did.

Only with Astir could she have a meaningful conversation for hours. Only he understood what she liked and thought the way she thought.

They were kindred souls—the first she had ever really known—and his absence made her unbearably lonely.

She found herself randomly wandering the hallways. She thought about finding the little garden where Astir had taken her, but she wasn't sure of the way. And, really, that's not where she wanted to be anyway—despite requesting some fresh air.

She took the main staircase up to the second floor, then hesitated, unsure if she should really be there. The work of the castle happened on the first floor. Only the Council chambers and the War Room were on the second floor; all the rest of the floor was for the royal family. The third floor was for advisors and guests. By going up the stairs, she had gone from the public to the private—a place she wasn't sure she belonged.

She walked down the hallway to the nearest guard.

"Excuse me, but I need to find His Highness. Where might he be?"

"I'm not entirely sure, ma'am, but I haven't seen him come past here today, so he might still be in his room."

"Where is that?"

If he found her request unusual, he didn't show it. "Second door on the left."

"Thank you."

She went down the hallway a short distance until she found the second doorway on the left. It was pretty clear that it was the prince's room because there were two guards standing outside it.

"Is His Highness in?" she asked the guards. "I need to speak to him."

These guards were not quite so quick to give her answers. "You work in the Archives, don't you?" one of them asked, giving her a look-over.

"Yes. His Highness asked about something and I have an answer for him," she said suddenly. She meant to lie, but as soon as she spoke, she wondered if her words were really lies after all.

"Just a moment," he said. He rapped on the door with his knuckles.

"Enter," came a reply from inside.

The guard opened the door a little. "Highness? Are you available for business?"

"Yes, yes," he replied dismissively, sounding irritated. "I always have time for business. It's what I live for."

The guard opened the door wider and gestured for Ysabel to go through. When she stepped inside, he shut the door behind her.

She looked around. She was used to the wealth of the palace, but the anteroom she was in was another level of opulence. The walls were white and heavily ornamented with strips of glowing silver. She didn't want to think about what it took to keep the walls polished.

"Well, what is it?" Astir asked, not even looking at her. He was sitting at a large desk beside a narrow window. It was covered with papers and he was obviously hard at work writing something.

Ysabel felt even sadder, seeing him like that. He didn't sound like himself at all. She wondered if he was always so frazzled and overworked and his lunches with her were the only break he had during the day, or if he was in a bad mood because she had rejected him.

She was silent so long, he dropped his quill and turned to look at her. "What . . ?" As soon as he saw her, the annoyed scowl on his face melted away and his eyes lit up.

How had she, of all people, come to have that affect on him?

"Ysabel!" he said, sounding excited and hopeful and astonished all at once. "What are you doing here?"

"I . . . I . . . um . . . we haven't seen you in a few days," she said, rather lamely, "and Master Samis was just wondering if they were working you too hard . . ." Her words trailed off. She felt foolish trying to blame the worry on Samis when it was her who had really been worried.

"I have as much work as I want," he said rather enigmatically. Then he sighed and leaned against his desk. He looked away, then looked at his feet. "I haven't behaved very well lately," he said, still speaking to his feet. "In fact, I've been an ass."

"You haven't," Ysabel insisted.

"I have." He finally looked up at her. "I've been sullen and ill-tempered with everyone and I've been avoiding you. I said that I would be content to be just friends, but I haven't been acting like a friend to you." He half-smiled. "In fact, I've rather been acting like a spoiled prince who can't have his way."

Ysabel didn't know what to say to that.

"Forgive me," he said, his blue eyes sincere.

"You don't owe me an apology, Your Highness. You can't help the way you feel."

"No, but I can help how I act. And, like I said, I have been no real friend. I've punished you for telling me the truth—the truth that I dragged out of you." He smiled a little again. "You have more sense than me—I see that now. You have sense enough to not speak when it would be hurtful to do so; I insist that you say what you know will hurt, then I am hypocrite enough to actually be hurt by it."

He looked at her for a long minute, as if drinking her in. "I've been working a lot to forget how lonely I am," he admitted at last. "Seeing you makes me realize how much I've missed being around you. Truly, I would rather have you as a friend than not see you at all."

"I'll marry you," Ysabel suddenly blurted out.

Astir looked as if he hadn't understood what she said. "What?" he finally asked.

She could have asked herself that. She hadn't intended to say that at all. She wasn't sure _what_ she had planned on saying, but that very definitely hadn't been it. But now that it was said, she didn't want to take it back.

"I'll marry you," she said, feeling nervous, but excited at the same time.

Astir continued to look confused. "Are . . . are you serious?" he asked.

She took a deep, steadying breath. "Yes."

"Ysabel, you don't have to marry me to spend time with me. I promise to be a better friend to you. I haven't had a lot of practice with it, you know, so you'll have to forgive my mistakes from time to time . . ."

Now it was Ysabel's turn to start feeling confused. She expected him to be over the moon that she had finally agreed. "Do you not want to marry me anymore?" she asked hesitantly.

"I don't want you to marry me just because you feel like I've . . . like I've emotionally blackmailed you. I don't want you to say 'yes' because you feel some sort of obligation . . ."

"It's not that at all," she said. "I just realized . . . I missed you when you were gone. And the thought that you might not come back bothered me."

"We can be together as friends," he offered.

"If that's what you want . . ."

"No, I'd much rather get married," he hurried to say. "But I want to make sure that's the way you feel, too."

She took another deep breath. "I do."

He studied her closely, his eyes scanning for some sign of a problem. "You don't seem too sure," he pointed out.

"I told you, I would marry you if you weren't royal," Ysabel replied. "It's the title and the job I'm not too sure of, not you." She smiled a little. "I'm sure of you. I'm certain of that."

He stood and limped over to her, then took her hands in his. "I don't want you to be miserable," he said seriously.

"I've been miserable the last few days without you. I can't imagine being queen could be worse." She pasted on a smile. "Besides, isn't this what every girl dreams of? Marrying a prince and being crowned a queen?"

"You're not just any girl."

She actually chuckled a little. "You know, my father said the same thing not too long ago."

"I'm glad we're all agreed." He reached up and touched her face—his fingers soft on her cheek. It made a little shiver run down her spine. "I know you don't want this," he said, almost whispering. "The crown, I mean. I know you would much rather be with your books and your research—a quiet, normal life. I can give you a lot of things, Ysabel, but I can't give you that. But, I promise," he said, his voice growing more earnest, "I will do everything I can to make this as easy as possible for you. I won't ask you to co-rule with me and I will make it very clear, from the beginning, that your appearances are to be kept to a minimum. You can still work in the library—maybe not full-time, but regularly enough."

She actually chuckled. "A queen working in the library."

" _My_ queen," he corrected. "And I wouldn't have her any other way."


	9. A Long-Awaited Gift

_Fifteen Years Later_

Astir's fingernails were carving grooves into the arms of the chair in which he sat. He wasn't even aware that he was doing so, or he might have stopped; he wasn't one to carelessly mar furniture. But his restless energy and gnawing worry was all bottled up and it had no other outlet. Hours before, he had been pacing, but he made his lame foot hurt so terribly, he had to stop.

"How much longer?" he asked Addison, who was sitting on the bench next to him, dutifully keeping him company.

"Who can say, sire? It's been a few hours; it may be many more hours yet. I've heard of women in labor for ten, twelve, eighteen hours. I'm given to understand that a woman's first baby takes longer; after that, they tend to come a little faster.

First baby. It had been fifteen years since Astir and Ysabel had married. If the gods had been good, and if he and she had been as fertile and Link and Zelda, they should have been on their seventh or eighth child by now. Instead, this was their first.

They had, in fact, given up all hope of ever having a child. Astir had taken Ysabel to Sunrise Falls for their honeymoon to show her her bridal gift. There, next to the beautiful waterfalls, they had learned how to make love and they foolishly wondered if they would have a boy or girl first. They had spent many hours arguing over names until they finally decided that they would name a boy after Astir's father, Lucien, and a girl after Ysabel's mother, Dorthea. In fact, they had it all planned out: their second son would be named Hadrian for Ysabel's father; their second daughter after Addison's mother, Penelope; a third boy would be Addison. After that, they decided to use whatever names they fancied.

But their first anniversary came around and there was no sign of a baby. Women all over the castle reassured them that wasn't unusual. Ysabel was just eighteen; many women didn't get pregnant until they were a little more mature.

So they waited every month anxiously for a sign that she was with child, but they really didn't begin to worry until Ysabel turned twenty and everyone else seemed to be having babies except them. After another year slipped by, it was suggested that they be examined by a physician to see if there was anything obviously wrong.

Astir was convinced it was his fault. He was certain that whatever had caused him to be born lame had also made him sterile. The court physician couldn't find anything obviously wrong with him, but he was convinced, nonetheless, that he was sterile.

And thus began years of embarrassing examinations, medicines, charms, and prayers. They grasped at every straw like drowning men. Doctors, healers, wise women, and charlatans from all over the world came with some theory or potion or crazy idea that supposedly increased fertility. They had taken regular vacations because some doctors were convinced that the stress of court life could impair conception. Once a year they took the "salt water" treatment for a month in Kakariko Province. Every day, they spent an hour naked in the ocean to absorb the healing salts, and they choked down a cup of salt water three times a day to get the healing benefits internally. They had no more luck conceiving a child there than anywhere else, but Astir had to admit that he and Ysabel were otherwise completely healthy; he couldn't remember the last time either of them had so much as a cold. The salt water even seemed to improve the pain in his club foot that became an increasingly obvious companion. But it did nothing when it came to having a baby.

That had been the least bizarre thing they had tried. Other things were too embarrassing to speak of; only their bedroom walls were witness. Lovemaking turned into babymaking, and they ended up having no real enjoyment or baby. On nights when the moon was in the right phase, or during a thunderstorm, or on such-and-such day after Ysabel's last cycle, or every Wednesday at lunchtime, Astir had done his duty. And that's what it became: a duty. They had to have a baby for the continuation of the royal line. It was, in fact, their preeminent duty and they devoted more time to it than anything else. Astir's appearances became less frequent over the years. Addison remained his Lord High Chancellor and heard some of the more simple cases on his behalf. Ysbael—when she wasn't bathing in cream or lying for hours with her feet propped up higher than her head—hid herself in the library. She occasionally helped Samis, but mostly she spent her days searching for fertility treatments or just losing herself in stories when it became too painful to remain in her own life.

There had been some things they had not been willing to do—but not many. There had been one physician who suggested that Astir take a mistress to see if he could get a child on her. If so, then they would know the issue lay with Ysabel and he could set her aside and take another wife. That had earned a rare display of anger from Astir and he had exiled the man from Hyrule. He still hadn't been allowed to return.

Then there had been the woman who suggested that that the gods needed a blood sacrifice before they would allow the Astir and Ysbael to have a child. Astir had immediately dismissed her. Sacrifices to the gods were the stuff of prehistoric legend. No one had done it in tens of thousands of years. And Astir wasn't about to be the first to restart the tradition.

But everything else they tried—no matter how foolish or far-fetched or implausible. And then, after a dozen years, it got to the point that Astir wasn't even able to do his duty anymore. "I quit," he declared one day when he couldn't even make a reasonable attempt at getting a child. He lay down beside Ysabel and, for the first time, he cried. He cried like a baby and Ysabel had held him and cried too. It was as if they were grieving for a dead child—and, in a way, they were; they were mourning for all the children that they were never going to have.

They didn't touch one another intimately for six months after that. They agreed that they would never have any children and once they accepted that, a great weight was lifted off of them. Their loss of hope left them with a lingering sadness, but at the same time, they were free to think rationally again. Astir's cousin, Justine, didn't lack for children, so he willed the succession to her and her descendants. If wasn't as if the family line was ending completely; it was just going through a younger branch of the family tree.

Ysabel, accepting that she had failed in her primary queenly duty, began to take up the other duties of a queen. She made more appearances, helped Astir with more of the work, and hosted more dinners and balls. The people had great sympathy for her and her plight, and the more they got to know her, the more they openly adored her. Other women who had suffered through childlessness were especially attached to her and she was always remembered in their prayers.

Astir and Ysabel went through a second period of dating where they learned to enjoy one another's company again, free of the weight of duty that had sucked all the enjoyment out of their lives for so many years. They began to have fun again. They traveled not for some exotic treatment, but for their own enjoyment. They began to really talk to one another again and share their passion for history and philosophy and other pursuits—everything but medicine. They had had enough talk of medicine.

After a time, their courting became romantic, and eventually they returned to their marital bed with newlywed passion. It was no longer about babymaking and it became about love once again—love for each other and nothing more.

So, imagine their surprise when, two years after accepting that they would never have children, Ysabel missed her cycle. They were certain that it had some other medical reason, so they paid it no mind. It wasn't until she missed a second month and began to feel sick in the morning that they accepted the fact that she was going to have a child. But even then, they didn't dare let themselves hope. They didn't announce it and they didn't even speak of it to one another; only the physician who examined Ysabel regularly said anything. For eight months, they held their breath, terrified that she might miscarry or deliver too early. As cursed as they had seemed to be with conception, they worried that the same problem would manifest in pregnancy.

But Ysabel's pregnancy had progressed normally and eventually it became impossible for her to hide it from the castle staff. Word spread around the kingdom like wildfire and everywhere people prayed for their king and queen and future heir. The monks in the monastery had around-the-clock prayers, so there was never a moment of any day when there weren't prayers being said for a healthy baby and the queen's safe delivery.

Astir was grateful to know the monks were at it in full force now. There was nothing to indicate that Ysabel's delivery wasn't proceeding normally, but Astir was still immensely worried.

"Even now I can't believe that we're having a child," he confessed to Addison. "I worry for Ysabel, but I can't bring myself to worry for the baby."

"I understand," Addison replied. "I know you and Her Majesty have long been without hope. It's easier to not hope than to be disappointed yet again."

"Exactly."

Time crawled by like a slug. And then Astir began to hear cries—almost screams—coming from the bedroom.

He jumped to his feet. "Ysabel . . ." he whispered. He was halfway to the door when Addison grabbed him by the arm and stopped him.

"No, Your Majesty."

"She's dying," he said, a tide of panic rising in him. "She's dying."

"I'm sure she's not dying," Addison said, his voice steady and reasonable. "I'm sure that's just the birth pangs. It shouldn't be long now."

"Really?" Astir asked, grasping at that hope.

"I'm certain," Addison said. He certainly sounded certain. Astir decided to believe him and let the older man lead him back to his seat.

Minutes continued to stretch past. Then an hour. Ysabel's cries came more frequently. And then they grew long and loud and Astir was on his feet again.

Addison had him by the arm before he could move away. "She is probably delivering," Addison explained. "Those pains are always the hardest."

Astir found himself wondering why he and Ysabel had ever wanted a baby in the first place. He was certain if he had ever kept watch at another woman's delivery, and had to listen to her scream as Ysabel was screaming, he would have told her he was happy to have no children at all. He couldn't bear the thought of her enduring such pain.

And then the door was thrown open and a flush-faced maid—her hair damp and disheveled—came rushing out. "A boy!' she yelled at the top of her lungs. "A prince."

There was a shout all around them as the staff nearby—who had been keeping their own watch—cheered. People started running in all directions, eager to be the first to tell their friends the good news.

"The queen?" Astir asked, having to almost shout to be heard.

The maid took him by the hand, all protocol ignored at such a momentous time. "She's well, Your Majesty," she said, pulling him into the anteroom. "She did very well, the midwife said."

"And the baby? He's . . . healthy?" he dared to ask.

"Oh, yes. He's a great big baby—healthy as anything."

"Not deformed?" Astir asked bluntly.

"No, Your Majesty."

The maid led him into the bedroom. There was a fire roaring in the fireplace making the room unbearably hot. The women who were tidying up all looked like the maid—red-faced, sweaty, and exhausted. But they were all smiling and chatting happily; all their hard work had been rewarded.

Ysabel was in bed, covered up. At her side lay the baby, his face just barely peeking out from under the covers.

Astir felt as if he was floating across the floor to them. Ysabel looked up at him, smiling, but with tears in her eyes. "Look," she whispered.

Astir looked, his eyes drinking in the sight of his beautiful wife, safe and sound, and the little miracle they had waited so many years for.

"He's beautiful," Astir said, sitting lightly on the edge of the bed beside them. He didn't say anymore as the first canon went off, its boom rattling the glass in the windows and startling some of the women.

"The announcement," he explained to a frightened Ysabel. Another canon boomed.

He leaned down and kissed his wife, then his new son as the canon continued to boom out. When at last they fell silent, the cheers of the citizens could be heard beyond the castle walls, then they were almost drowned out by the ringing of all the bells in town. Then the fireworks went off, peppering the blue summer sky with bursts of sparkling blue.

"Today, our joy is everyone's joy," Astir said, once the sound of the fireworks died away.

Addison came up beside him and put his hand on Astir's shoulder. Addison had always been proper—he had, after all, originally been hired to be the Master of Protocol—but now he looked not at all like a royal advisor and every bit like a proud grandpa. "Have you picked out a name?" he asked.

Astir laughed. It felt like the first time he had laughed in a long time. "Oh, yes. We had that picked out years and years ago. It's to be Lucien."

"I will have it announced."

"Thank you." Astir turned back to look at his sleeping son, oblivious to all the ruckus his coming had caused. "Lucien the Longed-For."

"Lucien the Lucky," the midwife interjected. "You'll see, Your Majesty. He's been born under a great star. Something big will happen in his lifetime. And I'm sure he will be lucky."


	10. The Pig-Faced God

Vindael stood on the rough, hastily constructed dais in the middle of the woods and, facing the crowd, he began to make his preparation on the altar. To his right, a line of six drummers began to tap out a slow, almost melancholy beat. Below, everyone stood silent, watching him with upturned faces that were equal parts reverential and hungry. He was the first priest who had been to their county in a long time.

Priests were chosen among the faithful when the pig-faced god came to them in a vision. But he came to very few men, so there were few priests to go around. There was at least one priest in most large cities, so everyone got to participate in the ritual communion regularly, but there were few priests available to travel and they had a wide area to travel. Couple that with the fact that the communion could only be held when the stars were properly aligned, and you had rural people who got to participate only once every decade or so.

Hence the huge turnout when it had been announced that Vindael would be conducting the ceremony for the county. There were little chapels in each village, but they were far too small to hold the number of people who would come for the communion. Originally, Vindael was going to be in the town square of the county seat, but the number who arrived early quickly overwhelmed even that space. So an altar had been quickly erected in a clearing in the nearby woods. And a good thing, too; the attendance had only continued to swell, until it looked like everyone within a three-county radius was there.

But the huge crowds didn't bother Vindael. In fact, he welcomed them. The more people who worshipped the pig-faced god, the better. For centuries, their sect had been hidden. At best, people mocked them for their drug-induced trances that left them in a limp stupor, vacant eyes staring into nothing for long hours. At worst, people pelted them with stones and drove them away, shouting accusations that they were thieves and murderers and deviants.

They just didn't _understand_. Once someone experienced a trance, life just made so much more sense. The human way of doing things was so obviously stupid and illogical. Animals didn't take care of other animals. Even pack animals only stayed together so long as everyone pulled his own weight. There was none of this nonsense about taking care of the weak. In nature, the weak were eaten first. Those who survived were the strongest, healthiest specimens. It was the strongest buck or stallion who controlled the herd and had offspring. The weak were not allowed to have mates.

For a very long time, people had been resistant to that concept. But slowly—ever so slowly—the idea had spread. Believers carefully felt people out and privately spoke about their revelations. Some dismissed them, but some were willing to try it for themselves. Once they did, the truth was so obvious, they were a convert for life. Over time, more and more people came to the faith.

Now, the faith which had been in the shadows was in the light and the old gods were just that—old. Few people still clung to the old ways. How could they in light of such an obvious truth?

The beat of the drums began to get a little bit louder and a little bit faster as Vindael began to stuff chopped up herbs and mushrooms into a large glass bottle three-fourths full of strong, dark wine. Once all of the ingredients were in it, he corked it and began to shake it.

The tempo began to increase more rapidly. The crowd was now starting to move a little—almost undulate—as people began to sway unconsciously in anticipation. Those who had undergone the trance before were practically salivating with the desire to have another one. Those who had not had one yet had heard so much about them from others, they were eager to take their maiden voyage. And no doubt some in the crowd were silently praying that the god would give them the special vision that would mark them as a priest. If anyone in the area did receive such a vision, he or she would almost certainly be instructed to stay, which meant that region could have its own full-time priest. Even if you personally weren't chosen to be a priest, you would still rejoice if at least _someone_ was chosen.

Vindael's arms began to ache, but he didn't stop shaking the bottle. In fact, he shook it faster, matching the tempo of the drums. As they got faster, he got faster. On and on he shook the glass bottle, violently sloshing the dark red wine, filling the neck of the container with pinkish froth.

He was shaking so hard, it was nearly impossible to see the first part of the change, but Vindael had done the ceremony enough to sense the change as much as see it. He glanced over at drummers; his look was their forewarning.

And then, suddenly, the wine turned clear. It wasn't really instantaneous—the color change actually happened at the top and worked its way down—but the shaking hastened the process to the point that it looked like it happened all at once. Of course, that was the whole point of shaking it in the first place: for the effect.

Vindael slammed the bottle down on the table with a _bang_. The drummers hit their drums extra hard at the exact same time, then stopped.

Vindael stood still, looking out at the crowd, allowing them to take in the effect for a few moments. He knew that their ears—just like his—were still ringing with a beat that was no longer being played. And the suddenness of the color change made everyone aware that magic was taking place.

Finally, Vindael uncorked the bottle; the _pop_ it made seemed to echo in the eerily silent woods. Even the wildlife was as breathless as the spectators.

Then he covered the mouth of the bottle with a cloth, to act as a filter, and poured part of the liquid into a gold-plated chalice.

He walked over to the top of the right-hand steps and gestured for the first person to come up. The highest-ranking people had been positioned to the front so they would get to go first. Behind them, though, people were merging into a messy line. There started to be some pushing.

"Friends, there is enough for everyone," Vindael said loudly, his voice stilling everyone immediately. "No one will get left out, so there's no need to try to push your way forward. Whether you get your turn now or ten minutes from now will make no difference to you once you are communing with our god."

This stopped the pushing and the line formed up more orderly.

The first man came up the stairs to Vindael. Vindael held the chalice up to his lips. "Taste with your tongue only," he warned quietly. "A swallow could kill you."

Some people had tried to take more of the wine in hopes of getting a vision from the god, but all it did was make their trances last longer—sometimes permanently. But the real reason why Vindael told everyone to take just a taste was it made the wine last longer. There were so many people at this ceremony, he might have to make a second batch. He had only had to do that once before, then he switched to a larger bottle. But even that might not contain enough for everyone.

Everyone filed up the stairs in an orderly fashion, tasted from the cup as Vindael said, then crossed the dais and went down the stairs on the other side. The drummers met them, each musician taking hold of the participant and quickly moving him or her to a vacant patch of ground. The participants were laid down in neat rows, side by side, and within minutes, they were staring up at the sky, their eyes vacant and unblinking.

Vindael repeated his warning to each person who came up. The dummers and the participants remained silent. Quickly they worked and quickly the people processed up one side of the dais and down the other. The motion only stopped when Vindael had to stop to refill the cup.

It took the better part of an hour to get everyone served. And, as luck would have it, Vindael was able to squeeze enough wine out of the mushrooms and herbs to serve himself and his crew. He gave each drummer a taste, then they went to lie down among the others. Then he drained the dregs and laid down on the dais, just behind the altar.

In less than a minute, he began to feel dizzy—even though he was lying down and perfectly still. And then he started to feel light, almost as if the thinking part of him was trying to rise up and float out of the lead weight of his physical body. The next thing he knew, that very thing happened. He was free and floating upwards, towards the warm light of the sun and clear blue sky. It was a wonderful feeling, being so free. It felt like he could go anywhere, be anything.

And then, suddenly, it felt as if someone had hooked him at the back of his belt and he was being dragged back down to the ground. His speed increased until it seemed certain that he would slam back into his body very hard. Vindael was alarmed because he thought that it might hurt. He was also vaguely aware of the fact that he had never experienced this before. Perhaps he had made the potion incorrectly, or perhaps there had been more left in the chalice than he thought. Perhaps this would become a permanent trance.

Suddenly everything went dark, but he still felt the sensation of moving. He could only conclude that he had been pulled into the earth.

And then he was standing on his feet in a large cavern lit with torches. Before he could notice anything else, a face materialized in the cavern, nearly filling the entire space. It was the green face of a pig.

Vindael fell to his knees—although he didn't feel it—and he gazed up at his god in astonishment. The god had spoken to him once before, choosing him to be a priest, but his visage had not been so clear and he had not been in this room. Somehow, Vindael knew that this was his god's personal chamber.

"You are devoted to me," the god said in a deep voice.

"Yes, my lord."

"You, of all the others, have magic in you. Not this trickery nonsense you humans call magic, but _real_ magic. That's because you are descended from a Hylian washed to this shore many, many generations ago."

"My lord, what is a 'Hylian'?"

"Another race—one favored by the gods. They are descended from the goddess Hylia and a mortal man whom she created."

"And . . . I am somehow descended from her?" he asked in astonishment. The idea that he might have a goddess as an ancestor was pretty heady—even if she was one of the old gods. Back in their day, even the old gods had been something remarkable.

"You are," the pig-faced god confirmed. "That's why you can do magic."

"Forgive me, my lord, but I'm not sure that I have ever done magic before."

"Whether you have done it or not is irrelevant; it's the _ability_ to do it that matters. If you have the ability, I can teach you how to do it."

Vindael's heart swelled in his chest until it felt like it was going to burst. "Oh, my lord," he said breathlessly, "I am yours to command."

"Good. I need you to commit everything I teach you to memory; there will not be another opportunity for us to speak again. The next time the stars align, it will be time. I have almost waited too late to choose you, but everything had to be in place; the people had to be ready to receive me. And I no longer have any strength, so making contact is not easy for me. But all that will change, if you serve me well."

Vindael bowed down, pressing his forehead to the ground. "I will serve you well, my lord, and faithfully."

"Good."

Vindael raised up again. "May I be permitted to ask what you mean by the people receiving you, my lord?"

"Long ago, Hylia and her golem exiled me from the mortal world because they were jealous of my power. I have waged an eternal war with them since that time. The last time we fought, though, they stole my power from me and kept it for themselves. That is why I have been so weak. But now, at last, the time has come for me to get back my power and rise again. And this time, I will crush them both and take _their_ portions of the Triforce. With the power of the complete Triforce, I will be unstoppable. Even the old gods will have to bow before me."

Vindael leaned forward, eager. "I will help you achieve this, my lord. I will not rest until your enemies are defeated and the old gods blow away like so much dust."

The pig-faced god smiled at him. "Good. We begin now."

"My lord," Vindael hurried to interrupt, "is there any name which you wish me to call you?"

The god hesitated, as if considering his request. Finally, he responded. "You may call me Ganon."


	11. Party Crashers

Vindael slowly became aware that he was staring at something very blue. He tried to blink, but his eyelids felt as if they were trying to move over dry, sandy earth. As painful as it was, though, his need to blink only increased, so he dragged his eyelids back and forth across his dehydrated eyeballs as the world around him slowly came into focus.

He realized that his mouth was hanging open and it was as dry as the Great Southern Desert. He closed his mouth, but he couldn't muster up any spit to lubricate it. He opened his mouth again and let out an indistinct sound, halfway between a hoarse mew and a grunt.

Suddenly there were several faces around him, but he had to blink a few more times to recognize his drummers. Someone lifted his head and sloshed a little water into his mouth. He immediately choked on it, coughing and spewing water everywhere, but his mouth at least felt normal again. His thirst, though, suddenly roared into life.

The cup of water was pressed back to his lips and he drank from it greedily. As soon as it was finished, someone passed another cup to Kyde, who, in turn, offered it to him. This time it was wine. It hit his stomach with almost as much dizzying force as the trance potion, but it slaked his thirst more quickly than the water.

"We were worried about you, Master," Kyde said, taking the empty cup from Vindael's lips. "Everyone else came back hours ago."

Vindael was a bit surprised. He looked around, but noticed that there was no one left in the clearing but him and his staff. The sun was barely visible over the tops of the trees in the west. It would be dark in a couple of hours.

And then everything came rushing back to Vindael and he knew why he had been in a trance for so long.

He abruptly sat upright. "Our god spoke to me," he said, eliciting gasps from the others. Every priest had been spoken to, of course, but no one had ever reported having a second contact with the god.

"He told me his name," Vindael continued, causing everyone to gasp even louder. "And he gave me a mission. We must go immediately to the coast and sail east."

Kyde blinked with confusion. "But, Master . . . you can't sail east from here. The wind and the currents don't allow it. You can sail north or south, and you can even follow the land around to the west, but you can't sail east."

"I can. Ganon showed me how."

sssBREAKsss

The celebrations of Lucien's birth lasted for a full week. Everyone in Hyrule took turns having intimate brunch receptions and large dinner parties. At night, the more well-to-do hosted balls at their homes, while the common people spilled out into the streets and danced to music being played by roving bands of musicians. During the day, stores were only open from dawn until mid-morning to allow everyone to buy what they needed for the day's activities, while giving the shopkeepers enough time to go to or host their own parties.

In the center of Castle Town, next to the fountain, ale, courtesy of the king and queen, was served continuously, day and night, to anyone who wanted to bring a cup and fill up. There was always a gaggle of people—mostly men and mostly the same ones—who just lay in a heap in the corners of the street, only occasionally getting up long enough to pour themselves another drink. Different guilds served food each night during the street festival and the drunkards usually roused themselves enough to partake of it, so they at least got some food in their bellies once a day.

Inside the castle, things were slightly more sedate, but just as joyous. Royals, nobles, and ambassadors from the other three kingdoms came to congratulate Astir and Ysabel. Hyrulian nobles came, too, and the tiny Crown Prince was proudly paraded around for everyone to see. There were large state lunches where a surprising amount of work was accomplished—it seemed everyone suddenly had daughters now that Hyrule had a prince, and they all wanted to let the king know that fact—and then, at night, there were joyful dinners, followed by balls, each with a different theme.

The final evening, there was a special supper and Lucien was brought out to celebrate his one-week birthday. Astir and Ysabel cut into a three-tiered birthday cake on his behalf, to the applause of the guests.

The servants were busily serving up the cake to the guests when a sudden, deafening clap of thunder shook the ground, making the dishes clink and the window panes rattle in their frames. Several women screamed and more than a few men shouted in alarm. Then an uneasy, fearful silence descended on the hall as the thunder rolled away.

"I'm glad we're planning on being inside tonight," Astir said. Just the previous evening they had all dined and danced under the stars in the east garden.

People chuckled and relaxed back into their seats. The servants resumed dishing out the cake and conversations were picked up again. But everything was interrupted every couple of minutes by flashes of bright light and more violent thunder.

Baby Lucien was crying and Ysabel couldn't get him to quieten.

"This is intolerable," Ysabel said to Astir. She had to shout to be heard over the thunder.

"It will pass soon," he shouted back. But he waved over the head steward and spoke to him. The man nodded, then hurried away.

Astir rose to his feet and held up his hands for silence. The guests quieted quickly, but he had to wait for another peel of thunder—just as bad as the first—to die away. "My lords and ladies, I suggest that we suspend our dessert course for the time being and go into the ballroom. It will be quieter in there."

Many people looked relieved by the suggestion; the ballroom was located in the middle of the castle and had no windows. There would be no startling flashes of light and the noise of the storm would surely be dampened.

Everyone began to get to their feet. Some people picked up their cake plates and wine glasses to take with them and suddenly everyone was laughing and teasing and it was a party again.

And then there was a blinding flash of light right outside the windows and, simultaneously, a deafening crack that shook the floor violently. Before anyone could react—even before they could shout—a huge object smashed through the windows, blowing out all the candles, slapping people down, and raining shards of glass on their heads.

Astir grabbed Ysabel and shoved her and the baby under the table, covering them with his body. He could hear people screaming and shouting even over the peel of thunder that kept rumbling on and on and on, as if it would never stop.

Finally, though, it did die down. Astir moved aside so Ysabel could come up for air. "Are you and the baby alright?" he asked.

He could barely make out her silhouette in the flashes of light as she sat up. She looked disheveled, but whole. "We're alright, I think," she replied.

Astir reached out to touch Lucien's face. He had gone silent—no doubt from surprise—but he quickly resumed crying—louder and angrier than before.

"Check him," Astir insisted.

Ysabel unwrapped his swaddling blanket and firmly felt his arms, hands, legs, feet, and head, but she felt nothing broken or bleeding. "He feels fine. I think he's just scared."

"Him and me both," Astir muttered. But he pushed himself to his feet and looked out over his dining hall to survey the damage.

A huge old tree had apparently been struck by lightning and had crashed through the window. It looked like it had missed most of the diners, though.

Then he thought he heard someone say, "Smoke." Then, louder, came a different person, "Smoke!"

In the light of the lightning, Astir could see dark smoke starting to fill the room. He glanced around, but saw nothing on fire; the wind had blown out all the candles. When he glanced back, he noticed that the smoke appeared to be spilling in through the broken window. That meant something else was on fire—either the tree, or some other part of the castle or city.

"Everyone," he said, having to shout over the noise of injured people moaning and the storm still raging outside, "if you are uninjured or are not hurt much, please go to the foyer."

That seemed to be the best place to go if there was a fire; if the tree was on fire, it got them away from it, but if it was determined that some other part of the castle was on fire, everyone could quickly evacuate out the front doors.

But no one left the room. In fact, the few people who were on their feet seemed to sit back down.

Astir was confused. Had they not been able to hear him? Or was everyone more injured than he thought?

And then the dark fog reached him and he realized that it wasn't smoke at all. Instead of smelling like burnt wood, it smelled cloyingly sweet, with a hint of something spicy.

Astir saw himself fall to his knees more than he felt it. Ysabel, who was still sitting under the table, grabbed him by the arm. "Astir?" she said in alarm, but her voice sounded far away.

"Get . . . out," he tried to warn her, but his words came out in an unintelligible slur, as if he was fall-down drunk.

He hit the floor, completely unable to move. He watched as Ysabel was overcome by the fog, too, and she collapsed beside him. Even the baby quit crying.

And then everything went black.

sssBreaksss

The storm had abated somewhat by the time a group of figures came into the silent dining room. They were all cloaked in black and hoods were pulled up over their heads. Each of them carried a glass lantern and the light from the candles reflected off their grotesque faces. They looked like someone sort of demon-bird—black with a long, hard beak. On closer inspection, though, human eyes could be seen looking out of the faces. They were just leather plague masks, designed to keep the wearer protected from fouls smells and miasmas.

"Start looking," one figure mumbled from behind his mask.

"He's not likely to be here," a woman said, even as she moved to obey. "He's almost certainly in a nursery of some sort."

"I feel strongly that he is here. So search."

The woman didn't argue with him further and she and the rest of the figures fanned out silently, picking their way carefully through the bodies lying on the floor.

The woman made it to the head of the table first and bent down to check the people lying under it. "I think this is them," she announced.

The leader followed her path to the other end of the table and thrust his lantern under the table. There was a man and woman lying side by side. Both were richly dressed—but then, so was everyone else at the party; they didn't have on crowns, but there were crowns lying near them.

More importantly, the woman was clutching a limp infant to her side.

"That's him," the man pronounced.

His companion bent down and carefully picked up the baby. She stood, holding him up in the light of the others' lanterns as they came over to look.

"Are you sure, Master?" the woman asked. "It would be bad for us if we went all the way back home, only to find out we have the wrong baby."

The man grabbed firm hold of the baby's arm and began chanting under his breath. None of the others understood what he was saying, but they saw the effect within a minute.

"It's him," the magician said firmly. A tiny golden Triforce was glowing on the back of the baby's hand.

Everyone nodded, looking suitably impressed, and there were no further doubts.

"On to our next stop," the magician said as he turned to leave. The others dutifully followed him from the hall and back into the pouring rain. They mounted their horses and rode out the castle gate without challenge; the gate guards, like everyone else, were lying senseless on the ground.

The magician led the others out of the city and into the monastery just outside the eastern wall. They left their horses outside the sanctuary, which sat at the center of the compound, and went inside. Everyone but the magician looked around; they had never been into a place dedicated to the old gods before. It looked interesting, but there was something about it that seemed old and stuffy. All the sanctuaries for their god were light and new.

Moving as if he had been there before—although he never had—the magician led everyone through a door under the altar and into a crypt. There was a flight of stairs in the center of the room that led down to a circular room that had a number of hallways radiating from it like spokes radiating from the hub of a wheel. In the middle of the crypt was an old tomb the likes of which no one there had ever seen before. The top of the tomb had been carved in the likeness of a man and woman. It was even painted and gilded to the point that the figures almost looked alive.

The magician pulled off his plague mask, revealing himself to be Vindael. The others pulled off their masks, revealing his drummers, plus a rather plump woman who was carrying the baby.

"We need to get the lid off," Vindael said, gesturing to the tomb.

Three of his men hurried to the head and three to the feet. Together, they strained until the stone lid started to slowly slide sideways, grating against the sarcophagus below.

Vindael held up his lantern, watching carefully as the ancient tomb was opened inch by inch, revealing a suit of armor so rusty it looked as if it would crumble if touched. In a few places, the rivets and leather straps that held it together had already given way, causing the armor to separate. White bones—glowing in the candlelight—could be seen poking out of the disconnected armor.

"That's enough," Vindael pronounced once the tomb was a quarter of the way open.

His men breathed heavy sighs almost in unison and slumped against the lid.

Vindael leaned in and picked up a small bone lying amongst a pile of rusted metal plates.

"Close it back up," he commanded. The men took deep breaths, then set about trying to close the tomb lid again.

"Is that all you need?" the woman asked, eyeing the tiny bone in Vindael's hand. She was always asking questions and looking skeptical—not like his regular assistants who had complete and total trust in him. But she could be won over with proofs, and once she was certain of something, she never doubted again. So Vindael put up with her; it wasn't as if he hadn't spent most of his life convincing others of the truth. Besides, she was crucial for their endeavor; she would serve as the prince's wet nurse.

"Yes, this is all I need," Vindael answered her.

"It looks like you would need more," she hinted.

"If he's too much himself, I might not be able to control him. I need as much as I need and no more."

The tomb lid grated back into place and the men slumped against it again, breathing heavily. "Now . . . what . . . Master?" one asked.

"Now we let someone else do the work for us. Bring in my equipment."

Two of the men put their masks back on and left the crypt. Several minutes later, they returned carrying a cauldron, tripod, and a satchel full to bursting.

Vindael set to laying out his equipment. Everyone gasped in surprise when he conjured a fire under the cauldron without using wood or flame. But he continued as if he hadn't noticed them. He already took his ability to do magic for granted. It was he who had conjured the storm that drove them across the ocean against the wind and current. And once they crossed the line of storms that created a barrier between the human world and the Hylian world, it had been easy; the winds and currents on the Hylian side were favorable for taking them the rest of the way east. Once they made it to shore, they were able to move inland just as easily; the Hylians apparently didn't make war on one another, because no one was suspicious about them in the least, despite their strange clothing. The only thing they had to be careful of was to wear hats or hoods that hid their ears; all the Hylians had long, pointed ears that set them apart from the humans.

Once they made it to Castle Town, it had just been a matter of conjuring another storm to hide the magical knock-out gas that he also conjured to put everyone in Castle Town to sleep. It was supposed to last for several hours, so they had time to do what they came to do and get back out without anyone even knowing about them.

So far, everything had gone perfectly according to plan and Vindael had no intention of it being otherwise.

It took the better part of half an hour before Vindael put the finishing touches on the complex potion; there were over forty different ingredients and the measurements of some were so exacting, he couldn't have so much as one flake or grain too much. But he did it all with confidence; it was almost as if Ganon guided his hands.

At long last, there was only one ingredient left. He took the small bone he had taken from the tomb and, with a pause for dramatic effect—which got the attention of everyone else, who had grown a bit bored waiting for him to finish—he dropped the bone with a _plop_ into the thick, grayish-purple stew bubbling in the pot.

As soon as the bone sank beneath the surface, the potion began to hiss and steam. Then the candles in their lanterns snuffed out and the fire beneath the cauldron guttered, nearly went out, then sprang up again in ghostly blue flames, dimming the tomb to the point they could barely see one another.

Then someone loudly gasped and the woman screamed as a black hand thrust itself up out of the cauldron. Vindael watched breathlessly, not feeling excitement so much as desire. Silently and eagerly, he was willing the creature to come into existence.

Another hand came groping out of the pot. Both hands took hold of the rim and began to pull. Ever so slowly, a head began to rise out of the soup. It was all black—not real and dimensional, like a person covered completely in soot, but like a shadow made solid—except for the eyes; those were small, red lights glowing out of the black, almost featureless face.

The body emerged, then the shadow-being slowly extracted its legs and stepped out of the pot. Even the dim light of the blue flames didn't illuminate or reflect on the dark figure; it was almost as if light could not touch him.

The figure stood obediently before Vindael. He could tell that it was male—although small of stature—and it had the pointed ears of the Hylians. It wore some sort of ridiculously long hat, but other than that, Vindael couldn't make out any other details as to its appearance. He supposed if it was possible that the creature could be seen in the light of day, it would resemble the man on the tomb.

"Do you know why I created you?" Vindael asked it.

The figure nodded once very slowly.

"Do you know what it is that you need to do?"

The figure nodded again.

"Good. Go do it. When you're done, rejoin us."

The figure nodded a third time, then slipped past the assembly as silently and smoothly as a ghost. They just blinked and he was gone. Then the flames guttered again and suddenly returned to their normal color.

Kyde visibly shuddered. "What _was_ that thing, Master?"

"A shadow demon. It is created to be an exact doppelgänger of a specific person. It can do everything that its counterpart can—or could—do, and it knows everything that person knew, but unlike other demons of higher intelligence, it is completely within the control of the person who created it."

"Why do we need it?" one of the other drummers asked. He looked equal parts fearful and repulsed.

"Because only it can get what we need." Vindael waved his hand over the equipment. "Pack this up and we will away. Our shadow will catch up with us."

What he said suddenly struck him and he laughed, almost maniacally. The others hurried, huddled over in fear at his power as his laughter floated up to the barrel vault of the tomb.


	12. Desperate Times

"Your Majesty. Your Majesty."

Someone was saying this rather frantically, over and over again.

Then Astir slowly became conscious of the fact that someone was shaking him, but it seemed far away—almost as if it was happening to someone else.

He wondered why the person was shaking him and why someone was calling for the king.

It took him a little while to remember that _he_ was the king. And if he was being shaken and called for, it was probably important. Urgent even.

He forced his consciousness to slowly climb up from the blackness where it had been lying dormant for an unknown length of time.

He didn't hear himself groan, but Addison did. The older man leaned in closer, his voice urging Astir to wake.

"Your Majesty, please, come back. Wake up." He shook Astir's arm so vigorously, the young man's entire body shook.

Astir mumbled something, but it was incoherent.

Addison looked around quickly and locked eyes with a young guard who was watching the scene anxiously. "Quick, get me some water!"

The young man tottered off, swaying back and forth like a drunken man, grabbing the backs of chairs to steady himself. Everyone was still affected by whatever magic had been used on them, but the effects seemed to be wearing off.

The guard found a pitcher of water halfway down the table and he brought it to Addison as quickly as he could manage. Without any hesitation, Addison upturned the pitcher, spilling its entire contents on Astir's face.

Astir jerked and he mumbled a bit louder; he sounded angry. But, at last, his eyes blinked open. He looked disoriented, but at least he was awake.

Addison—with the guard stepping in to help—pulled Astir upright and leaned him against a leg of the table. It took Astir another couple of minutes to recognize his foster father's face and then to realize that they were under a table.

"What the hell . . ?" he mumbled, his words finally formed enough that they were understandable.

"Majesty, we were attacked," Addison said bluntly, trying to fill Astir in as quickly as possible. "I don't know by what or by whom, but it wasn't just the dining room that was affected; everyone in the castle was knocked out—even the outside guards. There are people straggling in from the city who say that they experienced the same thing, so I think—but haven't yet confirmed—that the entire city was hit by . . . whatever that was."

"I don't understand," Astir said groggily. "Who could have done such a thing? And for what purpose?"

"I don't know who could have done such a thing—there's no one on earth who can do magic on that scale, that I'm aware of—but as to why . . ."

He put his hands on Astir's shoulders, bracingly, then took a deep breath. "Majesty, your son, the prince, is missing."

Astir stared at him blankly for so long, Addison wondered if he had relapsed. But apparently he was just suffering from shock, because he finally managed to stutter, "Wh-what do you mean?'

Addison looked over to where Ysabel lay beside them. "As best as I remember, you and the queen had the baby with you. Unless you handed him off to someone . . . he's not here."

Astir wrenched himself from Addison's grasp and began crawling on his hands and knees, looking frantically under the table. "No, that's impossible. He has to be here."

"I have everyone who can look looking for him," Addison said. "They're searching the castle."

"Search everywhere!" Astir shrieked. "Wake everybody up. Get everyone up and have them look!"

Addison started to reach for the queen, but Addison grabbed him by the wrist, stopping him. "Don't wake Ysabel," Astir moaned. "Don't wake her until we find Lucien."

"She may wake on her own," Addison pointed out.

"Find him before that." He looked at Addison with desperate eyes. "Find him."

* * *

Twenty-four hours later, every room, alcove, and crevice in the castle had been searched, and guards—led by a grim-faced Hadrian—had searched every home in Castle Town. But there was no baby prince. Perhaps just as bizarrely, there was nothing else missing—not gold or valuables or other people. Only the prince was gone.

Ysabel—who had woken up during the first hour of searching—was completely inconsolable. She had locked herself in the bedroom and refused to come out or see anyone. She even refused food and Astir both; he spent the night in a guest room staring at the canopy of the bed, unable to sleep.

The ambassadors from the other kingdoms were questioned rather sharply by Astir. None of the other kingdoms had been attacked and none of their heirs were missing. They sent condolences and offers of assistance, but Astir was suspicious of all of them; each, he thought, might be concealing the plot to steal Hyrule's only heir.

Addison had to go behind Astir and quietly apologize to the ambassadors for the king's thinly-veiled accusations and threats; the king was, of course, out of his mind with grief, Addison explained. And it fell to Addison to send messages of thankfulness to the other royals for their offers of help and promise to keep them informed. In fact, Addison—who had stepped down to the somewhat less-demanding role of Grand Vizier after Astir became king—once again found himself running the kingdom in Astir's name. But although he technically didn't have the authority to act as a Lord High Chancellor, no one challenged him. Someone had to be in control when the monarchs weren't.

As the long days dragged by and not even a ransom demand was forthcoming, everyone increasingly despaired that something worse than kidnapping had happened. People outside the castle began to whisper that the prince had been stolen and murdered—some said by foreign agents who wanted to start a war between Hyrule and one of the other kingdoms; other said that he had been killed as part of a dark magic ritual that would grant immortality. No one in the castle, however, dared to even think such a thing, much less breathe a word of it. It was said the queen was grieving herself to death and the king alternated between abject despondency and sudden flares of rage. The wrong word might drive the queen to suicide or the king to order someone's execution. So nothing was said at all.

After a couple of weeks, Astir dragged himself back to his duties; the business of the kingdom couldn't stop—not even for something as tragic as the kidnapping of the sole heir. He was haggard—he had a full beard, as he hadn't shaved since the loss of his son—and his patience was still nearly non-existent, but even this less-than-ideal version of their king was considered better than no king at all and more than a few people breathed . . . not necessarily a sigh of relief, but at least they breathed a little bit easier. Addison continued to do the lion's share of the work, but at least the king was visible.

That was more than could be said for the queen. While hearing court cases one morning—on the prince's one-month birthday, in fact—Astir admitted to Addison that he hadn't seen his wife in three days, even though he was once again sleeping in their shared bedroom. If he asked after her, eventually someone would report that they had seen her walking around the castle or going into the chapel or the library, so at least he knew that she wasn't lying dead from grief somewhere in the castle, but she had a way of not being found if he was personally looking for her. So he left her alone to deal with her grief on her own terms and in her own time.

So he was quite surprised when she woke him up in the middle of the night by throwing a book on him.

"Astir, look! Look!"

Astir rolled onto his back and rubbed his eyes. "What is it?" he asked, trying to orient himself.

"Look at what I found."

She sat down on the bed beside him and practically shoved the book up his nose.

He took from her as an act of self-defense, but his blurry eyes couldn't make out the words in the dim light of the solitary candle she had put on the bedside table.

"Do you see?" she asked. She sounded hopeful—eager even. It was like she was a completely different person.

"I can't read it," Astir said, squinting at the blurry words on the page. His eyes didn't want to cooperate—probably because it was the wee hours of the morning and they were supposed to be at rest.

Ysabel jerked the book away from him impatiently. "This is an account of Link's death," she said. "Listen to this part: _His Majesty Link knew that his time for parting was nigh, so he gathered to him all his kin—his children and his grandchildren and his great-grandchildren, down through all the generations. And he told each of them, in their turn, that he would watch over them from the Other World and would come to their aid when they needed it most._ "

She looked at Astir as if that was supposed to mean something very profound. But maybe his brain was still asleep—or maybe Ysabel had gone a bit crazy from grief—because he didn't understand what she was getting at.

"What am I supposed to see in that?" he asked.

She sighed, as if weary of teaching a not-too-intelligent child an obvious lesson. "Link will help his descendants if they are in trouble. _We're_ both his descendants and _we're_ in trouble."

Astir blinked in confusion for a few minutes, trying to follow her line of logic. "But . . . Ysabel," he said, trying to be gentle, knowing what he had to say would crush her hope, "that's . . . that's just something in a book—poetic license. The person who wrote it may have added that part because it sounded nice; it's not necessarily true. And even if it is true, there's not any real way Link can help from the Other Side; that's just something he said to make his family feel better when he was dying."

"But it _is_ true, and he _can_ do it," Ysabel said triumphantly. She put down the book and picked up another one that had been lying in her lap. "This is from a story about Amichen, the first queen of Meridor. She came here from Shi-Ha to marry one of the younger princes, but their party was attacked _en route_ by bandits—right around where the city of Via is now. It says she was "abused"—which I think means she was raped—and she was left for dead.

" _But while the Princess lay there, more dead than alive, a woman and a man—beautiful and radiant in appearance—came to her and encouraged her to live. They promised that her life would be worth the living if she would only bear the pain for a short while. They also told her that if she did not help, Prince Naissus would die and they would both be forced to reincarnate and live their lives again because they had a great destiny they had to fulfill together._

 _"Princess Amichen chose to live and later discovered, when she saw their likeness on their tomb, that the woman and man who had appeared to her were none other than Zelda and Link."_

Ysabel slammed the book closed with a satisfied _thump_. "See?" she said triumphantly.

Astir still couldn't make out her logic. "So . . . what? We wait to see if they show up and help us . . . in, what, a dream? Or maybe one of us has to be close to death . . ?"

He prayed she wasn't thinking about trying to kill herself in the hope that the ghosts of Link and Zelda would appear to her.

But, instead, she laughed. "No, stupid." She playfully poked him in the leg with the corner of the book. "You have the Soul Scepter."

Astir quickly pushed himself upright and stared at her. "Are you serious?" he asked gravely.

"Of course." She smiled. "The answer was right in front of us the—"

"No."

It was her turn to look confused. "What . . . 'no' to what?"

"No, I will not use the Soul Scepter to call up Link and Zelda." He thought her mad for even suggesting it.

Her cheerfulness vanished in a flash, like an eclipse of the sun. And her face was almost that black. "What do you mean you won't use it?" she asked accusingly.

"Ysabel, that thing is dangerous. Link and Zelda knew that; that's why they didn't use it but a handful of times, and only when necessary."

"That's not true," Ysabel retorted angrily. "Zelda used it every day for a year or so after Link died."

Astir put his hand against his chest. "If you haven't noticed, _I'm_ not Link. And you're not Zelda. And I don't think either of us has the right to use the Soul Scepter. It's a weapon, Ysabel, not an oracle."

She shoved away from him, getting to her feet. "I can't believe you have an opportunity _right in front of you_ to get some help finding our son and you won't take it."

Astir threw the covers off and put his feet on the floor. But Ysabel moved away from him, not willing to even be near him now. "Even if they came when I called," he argued, "what makes you think they would know anything?"

"They may not know," she allowed, "but you won't know unless you ask."

"Ysabel . . . I don't dare," he whispered sadly. "Not even for our child."

"That's the difference between mothers and fathers, I suppose," she said coldly and with great bitterness: "I would do anything for my child. If I had to kill someone to get him back, I'd do it right now without hesitation."

Her words didn't say it, but her accusing eyes did: If I had to kill _you_ , I would.

She turned her back on him and started to walk out.

"Ysabel, I forbid you to use the Soul Scepter," he called after her. "I forbid it as King."

She never stopped or acknowledged his command; she just walked out without a word.

Astir lay back down in a huff, then rubbed his face with his hands. Then he sat back up and rang for the night servant. A moment later, a young man hurried into the room. "Yes, Your Majesty?" he asked, looking anxious to please.

"Go to the chapel guards right away and tell them no one is to go into the chapel without my permission—not even the queen. You've got that? No one."

The young man nodded. "No one, Your Majesty. Not even the queen."

"Once you give them that message, wake Addison and tell him I need to see him immediately. It's urgent."

The man nodded again. "Yes, Your Majesty."

"Now go. Hurry."

The young man turned and ran out of the room. Astir laid down again with a sigh, and stared up at the canopy of the bed, wondering what he was going to do.


	13. Hope Rises

"What should I do, Addison?"

Astir's mentor looked deep in thought—and somewhat troubled. "It is . . . an interesting approach."

Astir gaped at him. "Do you really think this is a good idea?"

"I didn't say that."

"But you didn't say it was a bad idea," Astir pointed out.

Addison spread his hands. "I don't think any harm would come of using the scepter just this once. If it's something you shouldn't do, then I think you can trust that Link and Zelda will not appear so you won't be harmed. And then maybe the queen could accept that we must only look to the living to help us."

"Do you really think they would show up?"

"I have no idea, Your Majesty. But the more important question is whether they can provide any help. That I doubt."

Astir sighed and rubbed his face. That had become a habit of his over the last month; it was what he did when he was frustrated.

"Very well," he acquiesced at last.

"When will you do it, Your Majesty?" Addison asked, sounding almost eager. Astir wondered if the older man's intellectual curiosity was piqued by the possibility of seeing the Soul Scepter in use and the possibility of seeing the legendary Link and Zelda.

Astir pushed himself to his feet. "I suppose now is as good a time as any. Better, probably, since I don't want people to know what's going on."

"Now?" Addison asked, looking surprised. His eyes sweeping down Astir's person—taking in his nightshirt and the open robe he wore over it—said what he his voice didn't.

"If they see anything happening in this world, then they already know what I look like in my nightclothes," Astir said. He had no patience for niceties tonight—or any night lately, for that matter.

Addison's lips pressed together, but he didn't argue. That was a habit that the older man had adopted recently, too; before, he might have tried to reason with Astir, but now that the king's temper was so notoriously short, he let a lot of things go.

Astir slipped on a pair of shoes, then gestured to Addison. "Let's go."

Addison looked surprised again. "Me, too?"

"Yes. If they offer any counsel, you need to hear it. And you may think to ask questions that I don't. . . . If this works," he added skeptically.

Addison hurried to his feet and the two men walked through the quiet, nearly-deserted castle. The double guard that was always posted at three o'clock wasn't in evidence, and since dawn didn't appear to be breaking, Astir could only assume that it was sometime before three in the morning.

He wondered if the lateness of the hour made any difference to ghosts. He doubted it.

The chapel guard straightened up when they saw the king and the Grand Vizier crossing the walkway toward them.

"Open the door," Astir commanded.

The two guards glanced at one another. "Apologies, Your Majesty, but we were told not to let anyone in," one of them said.

Astir stared at him for a long moment, absolutely dumbfounded. "I gave that order," he said.

"Yes, Sire."

"Why would I tell you to keep _me_ out?"

This seemed to confuse the pair.

"Alright, I'm changing my order," Astir said. "I order you to let me and Addison in. But do not let anyone else in and we are not to be disturbed while we are in here."

"Yes, Your Majesty," the two guards said in unison, then they proceeded to unlock the doors and open them.

"Is this really the best we could do?" Astir whispered to Addison.

Addison merely shrugged. Thankfully, hiring guards wasn't his purview. "I would suggest asking your father-in-law, Sire," he replied.

Astir just grunted non-committedly. Whether he would take it up with Ysabel's father or not would remain to be seen. Despite being given a title and lands of his own, Hadrian had elected to continue to work as the Captain of the Guard. Addison knew that this was a point of gossip—and some derision—among the nobles, but the royal family ignored the impropriety of it. Hadrian seemed most content when he was working, and he did a good job, so Astir largely left him alone to get on with it.

Astir took the key from the guards and the two men walked into the chapel. The guards closed the doors behind them—rather ominously, Astir thought.

Astir took a deep breath and walked up to the case to the right of the altar. Inside were several of Link and Zelda's weapons—including the golden scepter encrusted with opals.

Astir looked at Addison. "Are you sure about this?" he whispered.

"I'm sure no harm will come to you. Beyond that, I'm not sure of anything."

Astir took another deep breath, then unlocked the case. He gently raised the glass lid and looked down at the scepter. It took him a minute to steel himself to pick it up.

He had held it several times before, but only to touch it—never to use it. Now it felt different—heavier—as if the weight of what he was about to do was in the scepter itself.

Finally, he turned to the empty chapel, held the scepter aloft, and said, "I call forth Link and Zelda."

For a long minute, nothing happened. He was about to ask Addison if he thought it hadn't worked, when a low fog came out of nowhere, crawling across the floor.

"Look!" Addison hissed.

Astir was too afraid to move, much less reply. For all of his trepidation about using the scepter, he didn't really think it would work. Descendant or not, King of Hyrule or not, why would Link and Zelda bother to come when he called?

He hadn't thought about what he would do if they actually appeared.

The fog began to rise in front of Astir and Addison. Then it parted and became two separate foggy pillars. The pillars then began to take on humanoid forms and the fog condensed until it was nearly opaque. Finally, features started to appear and sharpen.

About a minute after it started, the process was complete. Astir had no trouble recognizing the ghostly forms of Link and Zelda; they looked exactly as they did in their paintings.

Astir stared at them mutely for so long, Link finally spoke. "You called us?"

"Um, yes," he said lamely, still in shock.

"About your baby?" Zelda asked.

"Yes."

Link shook his head. "We don't know where he is."

Astir didn't know his hopeless heart could fall any farther, but it felt like it hit his feet at that moment.

Then Link continued. "And that's a problem."

It was Addison who replied to him. "What do you mean?"

"If he was in our world—the world of Hylians," Zelda corrected, "then we would know where he is."

"So . . . he's . . . dead?" Astir choked out.

"Oh, no," Link replied. "If he was dead, he would be here with us."

"So . . . where could he be?" Addison asked.

Link's face seemed to darken. "We think he was kidnapped by humans."

Both Addison and Astir were silent for a moment. "Humans?" Addison finally asked.

"Yes."

"But . . . aren't they on the other side of the Endless Ocean?"

"Yes."

"I thought it was impossible for us to cross it—or for them to come here."

"Well, apparently one or more of them has," Link replied.

"Humans used to worship the same gods we do," Zelda said. "We were established by Hylia, while they had their own patron goddess, but all the creator gods we shared in common.

"But they have all but extinguished the worship of the old gods—replacing them with some figure that no one knows. Maybe it's a made-up god, maybe it's some demon—it's hard to say. But, essentially, they have expelled the gods from their lives, so the gods can't keep tabs on them."

"Wh-what does that mean, exactly?" Addison asked tentatively.

"It means that the gods have no idea what's happening in the human realm, outside of a few isolated pockets where they are still accepted. But every time their place of worship is torn down and abandoned, they become a little more blind."

"But why would humans come all the way here and steal my son?" Astir asked. "They didn't take anything else that we've been able to find—no money, nothing of value, no one else's children . . ."

"We have a theory," Link replied. "Just as we know of their existence, so it's possible humans know of ours; after all, they once travelled here freely; presumably some of them also travelled back before the way was blocked.

"Whoever came here had great magical power—the likes of which haven't been seen since our time. Magic in humans died out long ago. But just as Zelda and I were born Hylians in a time when almost everyone was human, it's possible that a human has some recessive magical trait that has manifested. And it's possible that he came here in order to get someone of Hylian blood to try and breed that magical trait back into their race."

"But why my son and not someone else?" Astir demanded. "Whoever took him passed by several villages and towns on the way here from the coast. Plus, he had to work big magic to incapacitate everyone in Castle Town. Why not just take the first person you come across? Why go to all that trouble?"

"Your child is the most pure-blooded Hylian alive," Zelda pointed out. "No heir to our throne has ever been anything other than a Hylian and has never married anyone other than a Hylian."

"The irony is, though, that magic is waning even among Hylians," Link added. "No one is a born-seer anymore and there are few left who can scry—much less do more complicated magic."

"Is it possible that this human knew that and the whole reason why he did this was to preserve magic before it was lost to the entire world?" Addison asked.

"Perhaps. There's really no way to know, at this point, what his true motives are."

"So, is there nothing we can do to get our prince back?"

Zelda and Link looked at one another. After a pause, they looked at Astir and Addison again. "We can come back to help you find him," Link said.

"Reincarnate?" Astir asked skeptically. "It would take you, what, about eighteen years to get to the point where you would be able to help? My son would be a grown man by then, older than either of you. That wouldn't be terribly helpful."

Link was already shaking his head. "I don't mean reincarnate."

"What _do_ you mean?" Addison asked.

"The gods want your son found as much as you do," Zelda assured Astir. "They do not want the races mixing again—for whatever purpose. And, as you pointed out, he has to be found before he is old enough to have children of his own.

"That's why the gods are willing to bend the rules in this case."

"Bend the rules? In what way?" Addison pressed.

"To bring us back to life," Link said.

It was Addison and Asitr's turn to look at one another. "I'm afraid I still don't know what you mean," Addison told them.

"Our souls will be put back into our physical bodies and we will live again—not as souls in new bodies with no knowledge of our past, but as ourselves—as you see us now, and as _we_ know ourselves."

Astir's eyes grew wide. "Th-they can do that?"

"It is against all their rules, but they feel the danger of the races mixing again is too great a risk to bear; if a single human is this powerful, what might happen if he tried to intentionally breed more humans to be like him and to have Hylian traits to boot? All the gods' protections might not hold—which would not only endanger our people, but the other races of the world who live in their own lands in peace.

"There is no one on earth right now who has the skill and knowledge necessary for a quest of this sort," Link added. "That's why it must be us."

"What do we need to do?" Astir asked, his voice suddenly eager.

"Go to our tomb with the scepter," Link instructed. "Remove the lid, then call us forth again _in our bodies_. You need to utter that command," he said firmly. "Then we should come back in the flesh."

Astir nodded. "I understand."

"Then we will see you there," Link said.

Astir hurried to put the Soul Scepter down; Link and Zelda disappeared as soon as he let go. Then he turned to Addison, a light in his eyes that Addison hadn't seen since the prince went missing. "They're going to find him!" he exclaimed, nearly shouting with joy. "I had no idea . . . come back _in the flesh_. We can meet them truly, Addison! And if anyone can save my son, they can!"

"Sire, I agree that it's very promising," Addison said with reservation, "but the young prince is still in great danger. He's being held by a powerful wizard for unholy purposes—"

"Yes, yes, I got all of that," Astir said dismissively.

"I just think you should temper your hope with caution, Your Majesty. It may take them a long time to track him down . . ." He didn't add that they might not be able to find Lucien at all or that something might happen to him before they could find him.

But Astir was having none of it. "They'll find him, Addison," he said with a wide grin. "They can't fail."


	14. The Legends Return

Astir wanted to go to the catacombs immediately, but Addison pointed out that they would need help if they wanted to remove the lid from Link and Zelda's tomb. That presented a bit of a problem.

"Do we really need to keep this a secret?" Astir asked. "In fact, I think it would make everyone feel better to know that Link and Zelda are going to find Lucien."

"But they did say that the gods are breaking their own rules," Addison pointed out. "We might not should make that publicly known."

"They didn't tell us we couldn't say anything."

"Still, I think it would be better to ask, Sire, rather than make assumptions. Secrecy may give them an element of surprise, too; the enemy will not know that they are being hunted."

Astir had to concede that point. So, after a few minutes' deliberation of where best to find discreet help, they decided to send a page to wake Hadrian.

Astir wondered if his father-in-law slept in his clothes; Hadrian found him and Addison in the Council Room an incredibly short time after being sent for.

"What's wrong, Your Majesty?" Hadrian asked. In all the years that Astir had been his son-in-law, the older man had never addressed him by anything other than his title—not even in private.

Astir briefly explained what had transpired since Ysabel had woken him up a couple of hours before. He was rewarded by a rare look of surprise on Hadrian's face. It wasn't often that his father-in-law showed emotion.

"What are you going to do?" Hadrian asked once Astir was finished.

"We're going to do what they told us to do," Astir replied, as if this should be very obvious. "But Addison pointed out that we will need to have help getting into the tomb. He also suggested that we keep this quiet; it might improve Link and Zelda's chances of catching the criminals if they don't know they're being hunted."

Hadrian nodded. "I agree."

"Can you find some people to help who can keep their mouths shut?"

"Of course," Hadrian said, almost sounding insulted the king would ask. "If you tell any of your knights to do something for you in secret, it will be done in secret."

"You're right," Astir said. "I hadn't thought about it like that. Gather up a half-a-dozen or so and have them meet us at the Sanctuary."

Hadrian bowed his head, then hurried out. Given the man's near-magical ability to appear at the castle at a moment's notice dressed and wide awake, Astir wouldn't be surprised if Hadrian and a troop of knights managed to beat him and Addison to the tomb.

"Go back to the chapel and get the Scepter," Astir told Addison. "I'll get some horses and some lights and meet you out front."

"Maybe some clothes would be in order, Sire?" Addison hinted.

Astir looked down; he completely forgot he was in nothing but his nightshirt and a robe. "Yes, I think so." Earlier, when he thought this quest a hare-brained idea, he had been defiant when Addison suggested he put on clothes. Now, he was embarrassed he hadn't taken the older man's advice.

Astir wasn't as fast a dresser as Hadrian, but he still made a quick job of it and he and Addison were on horses, riding out of the castle, less than half an hour later. Addison had the Scepter discreetly wrapped in a cloak and Astir had some fresh torches tucked inside a haversack.

When they arrived at the monastery, they found a monk waiting for them, the gate wide open. "Sir Hadrian said you would be coming, Sire," the monk said with a bow of his head. "He and his companions are in the Sanctuary, waiting for you."

"Good," Astir said, although he was a touch disappointed that Hadrian had beaten him there after all. "I have business to discuss with them, then I wish to pray for the safe return of my child."

"There are brothers in the Sanctuary right now praying, Sire," the monk assured him. Then he paused, looking a little perplexed. "Or will they bother your meeting? Do I need to have them go elsewhere?"

"No, they won't be in our way. Better they stay and continue their prayers." Despite bringing in Link and Zelda, more prayers would never go amiss. Who knew what other rules the gods might be willing to break to save his son's life?

Astir and Addison dismounted and the monk led their horses away to a nearby hitching post. In the Sanctuary, just inside the door, they found Hadrian and six knights. The knights ranged in age from a young man who didn't look old enough to shave yet to a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair. All were tall, strapping men, however. Just the sort of muscle that was needed.

"There are monks praying," Hadrian whispered to Astir, gesturing to the monks who were on the dais up front. "What should we do about them?"

"Let them get on with it."

Addison limped towards the front of the Sanctuary, making for the door set under the high altar. As he neared, one of the monks broke from his recitations and came down the stairs to meet them.

"Good morning, Sire," the monk whispered. "Can I help you?"

"I have come to pray," Astir replied, also in the whisper. "But I wish to pray at the tomb of Link and Zelda. Perhaps they can intercede on our behalf."

That wasn't even a lie.

The monk nodded approvingly. "A very good notion, Your Majesty. Let me fetch the key to the catacombs and I will let you in."

The monk hurried away without so much as a question of why the king, the Grand Vizier, the Captain of the Castle Guard, and half-a-dozen knights felt the need to pray in the wee hours of the morning. But perhaps because the monks were on a round-the-clock schedule of prayers, they didn't find it strange when others came to pray, no matter what the time.

The monk returned in short order and opened the door under the altar. "Oh, I forgot to get some lamps," he said, as he peered into the darkness.

"No need," Astir said, pulling out the torches he had brought with him.

"Very good." He took one from Astir and went up on the dais. Standing on his tiptoes, he carefully touched the resin tip of the torch to the lamp of the Sacred Flame. Then he carried it back down to the king with equal care.

"Here is a sacred flame for you, Sire," he whispered. "May its light bless you in your quest."

"Thank you," Addison said, feeling touched. It was as if, unknowingly, the monk had given him a good omen.

"There is only one thing," the monk added: "you must never blow out or douse a sacred flame. Leave it to burn out on its own, or use it to light a lamp here in the Sanctuary. Once the flame has been passed on, then your torch can be extinguished."

"I understand."

The monk gave him an encouraging smile, then returned to his prayers.

Astir took the lead and went down the stairs to the catacombs door. Once the others were inside, he passed out the remaining torches and the men lit theirs from his.

"Remember what he said about the sacred flame: you all hold sacred flames now as well," Astir said. The men nodded in reply.

One torch was left in a holder near the door to light their way out, then they moved into the center of the room and down a set of stairs into another room, even larger than the first. It was round and had many corridors leading off of it. In the center, however, sat the solitary tomb that was the object of their mission.

Astir limped forward quickly, hardly noticing his crippled foot's protest, and he looked down on the painted likeness of the people he had just seen in spirit form. He felt hope, but also some trepidation. What if this didn't go right?

He quickly dismissed the thought from his head and turned to face his team. "What have you told them about what we're doing here?" Astir asked Hadrian.

"Nothing, Sire."

Astir looked each man in the eye. They were a credit to their rank; none flinched away. "What you do here now—what you see or hear—must never leave this room—at least not until my son is returned to me. Swear to me your silence."

Each man pledged in turn to keep his silence without hesitation or asking any questions about what it was he was about to be asked to do.

"Thank you," Astir replied. Then he turned back the tomb. "Now, we need to remove this lid."

The knights may not have hesitated to pledge their silence, but they certainly hesitated at that command.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" one of them asked.

"We need to take the lid off this tomb," Astir said, pointing to Link and Zelda's tomb.

The knights all glanced at one another, clearly uneasy.

"You told me that you were willing to serve the king in anything," Hadrian said, almost snapping. "Well, now's the time."

"Begging your pardon, sir, but I didn't know the king would ask us to desecrate Link's tomb."

"That is a sacred object—as well you know," another knight said, looking at Hadrian rather accusingly.

"I am not desecrating it," Addison said.

"You don't have to look at their corpses in order to pray to them," another knight said, a little more sympathetically. "They can hear you from out here."

Astir ground his teeth together. He really didn't have time to explain everything to them. What if the window for Link and Zelda's return was short? It seemed like it had been hours since he talked to them. Dawn was approaching. What if the spell wouldn't work then?

"Do you trust your king or not?" he growled. "If you don't, then get out and we'll find someone else to help me." He glared at Hadrian, "You should have just brought the castle guard; they wouldn't argue with me."

He saw the knights visibly flinch; his comment hit them where it hurt—as he knew it would. The Knights of Hyrule were known for looking down on the palace guard; they saw themselves as far superior protectors of the Royal Family.

"It's not that we don't trust you, Sire . . ." one of them began rather lamely.

"Then do as I asked," Astir snapped.

With great reluctance, the knights put their torches in nearby sconces, then began to slowly slide the lid off the ancient tomb.

It soon became clear that even the six of them would not be able to manage the lid alone, so Astir, Addison, and Hadrian stepped in as well, helping bear the weight of the lid as it was pushed off. It took everything all of them had to finish lifting it off the base underneath and place it gently on the floor.

Despite their misgivings about the enterprise, Astir noticed that the knights were quick to take a furtive peek inside the tomb, as if torn between their intense curiosity and a sense that to look on the dead was disrespectful.

Astir felt no such qualms, and he stepped up to the side and looked fully into the tomb.

There were two forms lying side-by-side in the bottom of the tomb. One was a naked skeleton, its grayish-white bones glowing dimly in the light of the torches. Whatever clothes the body may have had on at burial were now nothing more than a fine layer of dust around the bones.

To the right, however, rusted metal plates covered almost all of the bones of the other body. There was even the brittle remnants of a helmet on the eyeless skull. The leather that had once joined the armor together, however, had rotted along with the other body's clothes and its dust had joined it on the bottom of the tomb.

Both skeletons had their hands meeting in the middle, just as it was depicted on the lid's effigy. Astir found the image of Link and Zelda's skeletons holding hands for all of eternity very moving and he looked at them for a couple of minutes before Addison came to his side, offering him the bundled Scepter. That brought him back to the task at hand.

Astir unwrapped the Scepter and held it up. The knights around him gasped in shock, immediately recognizing what he had. But even they could not have guessed what was about to come.

"I summon forth Link and Zelda _in the flesh,_ " he said loudly, his voice echoing around the large circular room. Then, just to make sure he had been clear, he added, "Let their souls be returned to their bodies."

A white light flashed out from the head of the Scepter, causing everyone in the room to cry out in alarm. Even Astir was terrified; it had not done that when he used it before. But his arm did not falter and he held it steady as fog began to creep in from around the edges of the room and up through the stone floor.

"Look!" someone hissed.

The fog flowed like water across the floor and up the sides of the sarcophagus. Then it spilled over the edge and went down inside, where the bodies lay.

"My gods," another voice whispered as the fog seemed to gently rattle the bones.

Astir was now too terrified to drop the Scepter, even if he had wanted to. He stood, struck mute, and watched in horrified fascination as tendons began to build up on the bones. And then there was a sudden _snap_ as they locked the separate bones together at the joints.

Then muscle began to build up, enclosing the bleached-white bones in a red, meaty case. And in the center of the bodies, the abdomens began to swell like an inflating balloon; presumably the organs were being reconstructed and filling in the empty void.

A moment later, the lungs apparently came into existence, because there was a rattling intake of breath, then both flayed bodies began screaming the screams of the tortured.

Astir and everyone else jumped back from the tomb, but the agonized screaming continued as the last of the muscle came into being and flesh began to rapidly cover it.

"We must help them!" Addison shouted in Astir's ear, his voice still barely audible over the horrible screams. But there was nothing that they could do to help, as far as Astir could see. If he dropped the Scepter or did something else to try and stop the process, then Link and Zelda might be stuck inside their flayed bodies until they could be put out of their misery.

Then suddenly the screaming stopped, replaced with nothing but labored breathing. Cautiously, Astir limped back up to the tomb and looked in.

Inside lay the naked, dust-covered bodies of a young man and woman. Even in their disheveled state, their resemblance to the figures on the effigy was unmistakable.

"A-are you alright?" Astir asked hesitantly. They were panting heavily, but otherwise didn't seem to still be in pain.

Link slowly pushed himself up to his knees, the rusty remnants of his armor falling away with dull _thuds_ on the stone. As if exhausted beyond measure, he leaned against the edge of the tomb, clinging to it like a drowning man clinging to a bit of floating debris.

"Water," he managed to croak out.

Astir looked around, but didn't see anyone with a flask or waterskin. "Get some water. Quick!"

The young, beardless knight dashed up the stairs.

Link rasped something else, but Astir couldn't make out his words. "Can you repeat that?" he asked, leaning closer so he could hear better.

"Clothes."

It took Astir a moment to comprehend what Link had said, then he became very aware of the fact that he—along with everyone else—had been staring at Link and Zelda with such disbelief, they hadn't even considered that they were shamefully gawping at their naked bodies.

The remaining knights seemed to come to this realization a moment later and they hurriedly turned away, putting their backs to the tomb to give Link and Zelda some semblance of privacy.

Astir handed Link the cloak that Addison had wrapped the Scepter in and looked away as well. But even from the corner of his eye, he could see Link putting the cloak over Zelda to protect her dignity.

One of the knights stripped off his tunic and passed it to Astir, who handed it to Link. Link put it on, but it was so big on him, he looked like a child dressing up in his father's clothes. But it had one advantage: it covered him completely.

It had always been said that Link had been a rather small man, but it was rather shocking to see how very small he was in person. How did someone so slight manage to do all that he had done?

A few minutes later, the young knight ran back down the stairs carrying a bucket of water. He sat it by the tomb and offered a dipperful of water to Link.

As before, Link took the offering and gave it to Zelda first. She seemed to be in worse shape than him and he had to lift her in his arms and carefully pour the water into her mouth.

"Thank you," she whispered hoarsely once she had finished the water.

Link laid her down again before handing the dipper back to the knight for a refill. Then he finally drank for himself.

"Are you alright?" Astir asked again, once Link was finished drinking. "Do you need anything else? What can we do for you?"

"Help us out," he said, as he struggled to push himself to his feet.

Two knights rushed over and took Link under the arms. They lifted him out of the tomb with ease and put him on his feet. But Link immediately sat down and put his back against the tomb, still clearly needing to rest.

Another knight stepped into the tomb and lifted Zelda out. He passed her to another knight, who laid her on the floor beside Link. But she pushed herself into an upright position beside Link.

"Now what?" Astir asked, eager for more instructions. Link and Zelda surely had a plan and he wanted to help them in any way he could.

Link started to say something, but then let out a deep breath. "Give us a minute," he wheezed. "Undying is . . . a lot more painful . . . than dying."

"I'm sorry. Of course," Astir hurried to say.

"Excuse me, Your Majesty, but what the hell did I just see?" the eldest knight demanded.

"Nothing," Hadrian barked, glaring at each knight in turn. "Remember your oaths of silence. You saw nothing."

Addison raised his hand, cutting off his father-in-law. He thought it was permissible for the men to know what happened, even if they weren't to tell anyone. "It's a long story," he began, "but the short of it is that the gods have restored Link and Zelda to life and they are going to find my son."

This shocked all of the men into silence again.

Link took a deep breath and let it out again. When he spoke again, he seemed to be in better control of his voice, although it was still a little hoarse. "Before we get started, we're going to need a few things: weapons, proper clothes, something to eat, and some supplies. In order to go to the human realm, I am going to have to go get the Master Sword; it's the only thing that can cut through the gods' storm barrier and allow us to safely reach the other side."

Astir practically quivered with excitement. Not only was the great force of Link and Zelda being brought to bear on the situation, but the Master Sword was as well! The dark wizard who had stolen his son would regret the day he had ever been born by the time Link and Zelda were finished with him!

"We can provide you with all of that, sir," Addison said.

Link looked up at him. "I think your decision to keep this enterprise quiet is wise. We don't know who else may be involved—or even if the humans had help here from some dark person. But, even if that is not the case, the more widely our presence is known, the more someone might be able to find out by scrying and listening to what people are talking about."

He took another deep breath, as if gathering up his strength. "Let's get on this," he said. "I would like to be on our way by sun-up."

Two of the knights rushed into help Link to his feet, but he waved off their guiding hands. "I think I can manage now," he said.

Another knight offered to carry Zelda back to the castle, but she waved his offer off as well. "I think I should walk. I need to get the stiff out." He helped her to her feet, but when she swayed a bit precariously, she took his arm and allowed him to assist her.

One of the knights took Zelda's bow and Link's sword from the stony hands of their replica selves on the tomb lid and offered them to their real counterparts.

"I wonder if this is still any good?" Zelda asked as she looked her old bow over. It was, after all, a few thousand years old and it was only made of wood; it was nothing magical.

"I don't know," Hadrian said, "but the Knights have kept it waxed through the years . . . just as we have tended Link's sword."

Link held up his sword and looked at it in the firelight. "I think it looks the same as the day when I bore it last."

All of the knights—even Hadrian—smiled at that. All their effort had not be in vain.

They moved slowly across the room—Link and Zelda as slow and shuffling as Astir on a bad day—and made their way even more slowly up the stairs. When they reached the top, Addison put his hand out, stopping Astir.

"Should we lead them out?" he asked quietly. "The monks might notice that we're leaving with two half-dressed people that we didn't have with us before."

"True."

"We can go the back way," Zelda said, a bit breathless from the climb up the stairs.

"The back way?" Astir asked.

She pointed to a back corner of the catacombs. "The passage to the throne room."

Astir had forgotten about it. He knew that it existed, of course, but he had never personally explored it; he was afraid the walk might be too far on his lame foot. And if he went down in the passageway, there was no telling how long it might be before someone found him.

"I'll go with them," Hadrian offered, taking the torch that they had left by the exit. "There are guards in the throne room and there will be questions if two unknown people come popping out from under the throne."

"The monks aren't likely to notice that one of our party is missing," Addison said.

"Very well. Take them to my room. We'll meet you there."


End file.
